


On My Mind (Slightly to the Left and Back)

by TheObsidianWarlock



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Possession, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-08-05 13:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 68,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16368596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheObsidianWarlock/pseuds/TheObsidianWarlock
Summary: Moved by memories and her own forgiveness, Jaina extends the ultimate mercy to Sylvanas and alters the course of Azeroth.OR: Jaina saves a dying Sylvanas by allowing the Banshee Queen topossessher.This can’tpossiblygo wrong.After reading all the amazing Sylvaina stories coming out, I had to do this. This pairing always needed an epic event to get off the ground, so let’s give them one! I apologize for any lore mistakes (or deliberate changes) I make and hope you all enjoy!Written for sniperct, whose work on this pairing is officially legendary.Chapter count is approximate and will likely climb as I let useless details bulk up my chapters. Updates every 2 weeks-ish, I think. Faster if I can. Probably slower occasionally. Life is busy.





	1. Faulty Intelligence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sniperct](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sniperct/gifts).



> Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no profit. It's just fun and writing practice.
> 
> This one's a touch long, but setup is setup. Heeeere we go!

Thunder rolling across stormy clouds; waves crashing against the storm silver hull; these form her mantra as she concentrates. The sailors on her flagship knew to leave her be in her cabin for the duration of the voyage. They busied themselves tending to the sails straining against the unnatural winds that drove the fleet forward. The masts of every ship groaned and creaked endlessly as the boats themselves voiced their complaints to her pushing them ever faster. 

Jaina Proudmoore, Lord Admiral of Kul-Tiras, did not care. 

She cared for her people, for the Alliance, and for victories against the Horde – whatever that meant these days. Her ships could suffer a little to deliver their cargo as fast as possible: Soldiers, food, ammunition, medical supplies and Azerite weapons in quantities too massive or volatile to move with magic alone. 

Azerite especially was the focus of this new war with the Horde. The supposed ‘life blood’ of the planet manifested as a liquid or mineral with a golden glow, fading to azure at its edges. In typical fashion, the first thing all arcane researchers noticed was its vast energy capacity and potential for use in enchantments, as a fuel source … and as a weapon. 

The war for control of the substance began almost immediately.

The burning of the Night Elves’ home and the subsequent destruction of the Undercity at Lordaeron left the Alliance and Horde in control of their respective continents and without any true adjoining borders. Their skirmishes thus fell to the islands between – islands rich in Azerite.

Kul-Tiras, a nation formed of precisely such isles, now functioned as the staging area for the Alliance war effort. It meant a large influx of gold and trade to bolster her beleaguered peoples’ economy and spirits, and constant use of her powerful fleet.

The orders of the day never truly changed: Claim new islands, fortify defenses; mine and transport Azerite. Skirmish with the fleets of Zandalar, an island nation of trolls that meant to the Horde what Kul-Tiras did to the Alliance. Assault islands under Horde control, stealing their Azerite stocks as possible. Rally to the defense of islands attacked by the Horde, saving the Azerite and as many soldiers as possible. 

That last part rankled in Jaina’s mind. Saving the Azerite, as though it was the soldiers who sprouted fully-grown from the ground while the stupid rock was grown lovingly in a mother’s arms for two decades. How many champions and friends had she already lost to endless years of battle? 

The halo of energy around her staff surged in response to her emotion, followed by the chilling crackle of wood pushed just a little too far. In the mirror on the far wall, she caught sight of her blue eyes aglow with power more suited to the battlefield than the mere moving of ships. 

Closing them, she forced herself to be calm, to immerse herself in her surroundings: Every window was open, and a salty breeze ruffled the sheets on her bed. An adventurous sparrow sat right in front of her at the table, the unapologetic stowaway happily devouring the crumbs of her small lunch. She balanced her staff in her lap, then gathered her long hair and began to braid it, the rote action stealing the last of her anger. 

She felt much like her hair these days. Overexposure to mana had bleached the color from it, leaving just a single lock of her original blonde along the front. The rest was a bright, shocking white that made her look far older than her thirty-some years of life. 

She felt much, much older. 

From the naïve and lovestruck girl who apprenticed herself to an archmage; to a refugee, the founder of a nation and a traitor to her own, complicit in her own father’s death; to the sole voice of peace between Alliance and Horde; to the bitter sorceress, now an archmage in her own right, avenging her fallen nation upon that same Horde; and now, returned to her homeland, convicted, pardoned, and named its leader. 

Lord Admiral.

Yes, she felt old. But her mother’s embrace and forgiveness brought a spark of light to her darkened heart. The reconciliation eased her pain and gave her some of her old hope that the world might yet right itself. 

Perhaps it would – but not if the Alliance valued minerals over lives. 

_No, breathe. You’re casting, silly girl. Brooding while casting means overloaded mana constructs, broken masts and scared sailors. Be good._

“Land ho!” came the cry from the crow’s nest, and with it a flood of relief. The trip was almost over. The ship turned slightly as the captain adjusted his course and Jaina shifted her working, allowing the winds to match. They’d spend a day just offshore unloading troops and supplies, and then make for home laden with raw Azerite and men and women eager to see their families. 

A smile tugged at her features, thoughts of a warm dinner and perhaps a nap banishing her bad mood. They had arrived a full two days ahead of schedule – perhaps in payment she could spend those days relaxing and return on schedule instead.

\---== {(0)} ==---

To Sylvanas Windrunner, boredom and sailing went hand in hand. When she lived, she had been a creature of the forest; a swift hunter and scout, rising to the title of Ranger-General of Silvermoon. There had always been something to do, somewhere to go, something – or someone – to hunt.

Death stole from her much of her joy and comforts. Pain, pleasure, hunger, thirst, lust, breathing… all taken from her. Her golden hair now lay limp and pale, her features gaunt and grey. Her blood no longer sang in her ears, her heart silent as the grave. If she strained she could make out the faint hum of the death magic that permeated her being, but that was it. 

Her only joy now lay in duty – the preservation of those transformed like her by the Lich King. She gathered them to her — her Forsaken. She was their Dark Lady; the Banshee Queen. She nurtured them, protected them. Grew them. Enemies in life would serve her in death. 

That protection now extended to the entirety of the Horde. They called her ‘Warchief’ now; they all followed her lead, even if reluctantly. It did not matter to her if they could not see the plans that lay behind her seemingly-wanton cruelty. It certainly did not matter if her decisive actions impinged upon their misguided sense of ‘honor.’ All that mattered is that they served her so that she could protect them. The loyal that fell in the line of duty would rise and serve again.

A rare smile found its way to her lips, her iridescent eyes sparkling a slight crimson as her emotions roused. Honor, history, balance, love, freedom, power, wars, even this Azerite that made such beautifully destructive weapons; none of it mattered. In the end, everything died and wasted away. In the end, everyone became fuel for her Val’kyr necromancers. 

In the end, everything and everyone would come to her. Everyone would serve.

Her eyes glowed brighter as she processed this thought. Was she stuck in some perverted loop from her Ranger-General days, committed to serving her people even if she knew only hate? Did she take such pains to grow the ranks of undead just to fuel that desperate need to protect someone, to have someone – anyone – need her?

Yes. Probably. Undeath was its own special torment, after all. Sanity was a thing for the living. After all, a sane leader would also remain well behind the ranks, rather than risk themselves just for the sake of some sport.

But she was not sane. She was, if anything, bored. 

Pushing forward silently on enchantments, its sails tightly furled, the _Windrunner_ made no noise above the regular crashing of waves. Running no lights, it slipped along the water like a shadow, its undead crew motionless as the rails they held. Other Horde ships would be visible, the battle they waged predictable. Hers was the flanking ship; the sneak attack to ensure victory and an easy retreat from the island ahead of them. 

Stolen Alliance correspondence put their next shipment in two days’ time. By the time Alliance vessels reached the harbor, they’d find their camp in ruins, their people dead and the Azerite gone. Another swift victory, some fun for herself and her Dark Rangers, and another feather in her cap to silence the persistent whispers that questioned her leadership of the Horde.

Finding the origin of those rumors was as simple as looking in the mirror. Even Nathanos, her most dedicated Forsaken Champion, had balked when she’d ordered the world tree Teldrassil burned when they sacked Darnassus. A terrible command to give, with consequences the world would no doubt suffer.

Hindsight, as is often the case, proved her at least partially right. The loss of Darnassus and the world tree sent the Kal’dorei and Gilnean survivors fleeing to Stormwind. The night elves’ retreat robbed the Alliance of a secure staging area on Kalimdor, securing the continent and its Azerite for the Horde. Now the race was on to secure the remaining deposits scattered across the islands. There was precious little of the material in the Eastern Kingdoms themselves according to her spies; decisive naval victories would guarantee the military superiority of the Horde for decades at the least.

Of course, naval victories against the Kul-Tiran and Alliance fleets were hard-won. Even with Zandalar’s ships, the enemy had a slight advantage in terms of pure fleet power. The key lay in gathering useful intelligence and executing swift, precise operations that avoided engaging the fleet directly and keeping their Lord Admiral busy and passive.

As the ship turned towards the island the setting sun pierced the shadows of her room for a moment, bathing her in its light. A fleeting memory of warmth flickered at the back of her mind – an afternoon stroll through the trees along the northern shore of Quel’Thalas.

It was gone as quickly as it came. The shadows enveloped her again, and the ship continued its silent course toward land.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“All’s proceeding apace, Lord Admiral,” the captain said from beside her. Jaina favoured him with a smile and turned her attention back out over the harbour as he made his way below deck.

“Fifth run this month,” a sailor on the docks muttered.

“Aye, Lor’ Am’ral’s magics’re strong,” another commented. “Good thing the ships’re plated, the way she cuts the waves.”

Someone voiced their agreement as the group walked off, cargo in tow. Jaina closed her eyes, thanking the Light, the Tidemother, and anyone else who cared to be listening. Not too long ago, it was nothing but ‘Daughter of the Sea’ comments from a people used to thinking of her as Kul-Tiras’ most notorious criminal. That had died off rather quickly, but she’d had a slew of awkward conversations with sailors she’d just as soon forget. 

The footfalls of someone approaching with purpose drew her away from her thoughts. Jaina straightened and adjusted her cloak, then turned —

“Mishan?”

The woman in question gave a slight bow, then joined Jaina at the ship’s rail. “Lord Admiral. How are you today?”

“I’m … well, I think. Obviously distracted if I didn’t notice you were captaining one of my ships. But I thought you were with Tandred. What are you doing out here?”

“Getting some fresh air.” Mishan looked to Jaina, then quickly away. “Thinking.”

“Must be some heavy thinking to require a trip to the frontlines,” Jaina joked, grasping for some levity. Her brother, Tandred, took their mother’s tale at face value and welcomed Jaina home with open arms; her dramatic summoning of his lost fleet back to Boralus Harbour played no small part in that. Her brother’s not-so-secret lover was highly protective of him, however. An influential captain in the Kul-Tiras navy, Mishan Waycrest was a little slower to warm to her than most. Jaina marked it as progress that Mishan approached her at all.

The woman stared back at her, dark eyes through dark locks. Jaina silently congratulated Tandred on choosing a strong woman. 

“Your brother’s going to propose,” Mishan offered eventually. “I saw the ring.”

“That’s wonderful!” Jaina gushed, a giddy happiness blossoming. “This is amazing news!” She clasped her hands together, bouncing in place and just barely restraining herself from hugging her soon-to-be sister-in-law. They weren’t at hugging yet.

“It is, yes.” The wan smile Mishan gave stole some of Jaina’s joy and replaced it with concern.

“Are you not ready for that? You seem less than enthused.”

The captain blew out a sigh, looking back out at the ocean. “I love Tandred,” she said eventually. “I love him more than any other. But I’m not ready to give up my life on the waves.” Mishan gestured towards Jaina in a you-know sort of way. “If we get married, Tan’ll expect a child sooner or later. I…” 

Oh. _Oh._

Mishan went silent as memories good and bad assaulted Jaina. The pain of recollection warred with her desire to bond with her almost-sister. Fighting through the swamp of her emotions, Jaina found her voice again.

“The last time I contemplated children, Tandred was still a child himself…” she paused, drawing a steadying breath, “…and I loved Arthas with all my heart.”

Mishan whipped her head around to look at her again, eyes wide. Jaina offered her a rueful smile. One just didn’t mention the name of the former Lich King so casually, even if they were once your lover. 

“I remember Arthas. The simple joy of riding together, the quiet agony of first love. I remember Theramore, the hope and joy of the people as they helped build the city; those were probably the best years of my life.” She brushed a tear away and focused her power on a quick spell to dry her eyes and prevent her crying. “Life… Life moves quickly, Mishan. Don’t let it pass you by. There will never be a moment where you’ll truly be ready; and then all the moments will be gone.”

The hug was small; Mishan stepped forward and tucked her chin over Jaina’s shoulder, placing one hand against her waist. Jaina wrapped her arms carefully around the captain and swayed gently, and moments passed as one wrestled with the present while the other mourned the past.

“This calls for whiskey at the very least,” Mishan said as she broke away. “Join me with the boys? There’s bound to be some drink and food in the mess.”

“Of course,” Jaina laughed, taking Mishan’s arm. “That sounds wonderful.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

“My Queen,” Nathanos called, drawing Sylvanas’ attention from the map in front of her. “Mages from the strike fleet have sent word. They are now close enough to begin their run on the Alliance docks. They are hidden from view just around the north lip of the cove, right on schedule.”

Sylvanas nodded; that was the first step complete. The glow of early dawn touched the treetops of the island, giving them a golden sheen. “What of our position?” she asked, her voice betraying its deadly potential with its unnatural reverberation.

“The captain assures me we are less than thirty minutes away. We will be shielded by the southern lip until the final run. The lookouts report no scout sightings or watch towers away from the encampment in keeping with previous intelligence.”

Step two complete. “Good. The crews are briefed?”

“They are aware: We will engage the ships that sail to meet our attack, surprising them and flanking to prevent escape. Once the Alliance ships are destroyed, we will make immediately for shore while the rest of our fleet bombards the Alliance camp.”

Everything was ready. Sylvanas gave her champion a grin, her fangs catching the limited light in the room. “Then send the signal, Nathanos. Let us begin.”

Nathanos bowed and left, and Sylvanas stood and retrieved her bow, stringing it with a careless flex of her arms. Her hunt would begin soon.

\---== {(0)} ==---

The sound of an alarm bell jolted Jaina from sleep. “To arms!” called a guard’s voice. “Horde ships on the horizon! To arms!”

“Shit,” Jaina cursed as she rolled out of her bed, calling up familiar spells as she walked. One step and her hair braided itself neatly; another and oils and sweat purged themselves from her face, a touch of makeup applied to her eyes and mouth. Two more steps and her leather boots, leggings and corset solidified, sliding along her skin and tightening into place even as her nightgown vanished into the ether. Her cloak and pauldrons appeared next, draping around her as the leather straps fastened themselves with a series of clicks. 

She strode out of her cabin into the chaos of sailors stumbling from sleep to prep the ship, a sweeping figure in the blues and whites of Theramore parting the Kul-Tiran sea of green and bronze worn by her crew. 

“Captain Robards,” she called to the man as she climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck. “What’s going on?”

“We have a Horde fleet incoming, Lord Admiral,” he growled, working an enchanted spyglass. “Three orcish, four Zandalari.” He snapped the spyglass closed and turned to face her. “They’re all sitting heavy in the water – shore parties for certain.”

Jaina gestured for room, then sent spell threads out to each of her ships. Several portals opened at once, and the captains all stepped through in varying degrees of preparedness. A mixed chorus of “Lord Admiral” and “Lady Proudmoore” greeted her as they arranged themselves in a rough semi-circle. Mishan smiled at her.

“Fleet of seven incoming,” she said as the portals closed, returning Mishan’s smile quickly. “Obviously a strike at the outpost. Strategy?”

Eyes turned to Robards, the senior captain in the fleet. “We can defend the docks with the three Stormwind ships stationed here and keep them out of cannon range of the shore. Then, with your permission, our five ships are better armed and armored; we can sail to meet them and take them in a skirmish.”

“If I may,” Mishan said, “I’d appreciate if you remained on shore, Lady Jaina. We have capable enough mages on our ships, and with you near the docks you could call any damaged ships back behind the Stormwind blockade to minimize our losses.”

Jaina frowned for a moment but nodded. It made sense; she was unfamiliar with their tactics and the specific spells the captains would expect. Live combat was not the place to learn.

“Very well,” she said. “I’ll watch for flares, then?” 

The captains all agreed, and Jaina reopened the portals to their ships. 

“We’ll handle them, Lord Admiral!” Mishan said as she stepped through her portal. “Come on, boys,” she called to her crew, “let’s make ‘em regret being born!”

The portals closed and Robards saluted her before walking off. Jaina made her way back to the main deck. She passed by her ships’ Tidesage as she made her way to the boarding ramp. 

“Tides bless you, Lady,” the woman said, a gnarly hand reaching out to hold hers. The unusual contact shocked Jaina, but she gave the woman’s hand a comforting squeeze, her response already flowing from her young years amongst them.

“Tidemother keep you, sister.”

The grip on her hand tightened like a vise. “The depths whisper strange things,” she said, leaning close to Jaina. “So often now they call for death and violence. The studies of your young years are gone, Lady. The tides hold naught but danger for you now.”

The old woman raised her sight, a far-off, alien look that whispered secrets just beyond hearing to her arcane senses.

“Beware your anger,” the Tidesage whispered. “They will use it against you, Lady. They _know_ you. They _know_.”

Jaina held the gaze, reaching in vain for the whispers as they danced beyond her perception. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and took the woman’s hand in both of hers. “Thank you for your wisdom, sister. Please help me see to the safety of our sailors.”

The old Tidesage smiled kindly, apparently satisfied. She released Jaina’s hands with a final squeeze and reached up to pat her cheek, repeating her blessings before turning away. Jaina hurried across the boarding ramp and made her way to the encampment’s watch tower, soldiers scurrying around her.

But now, wary and warned, she kept her ear on the rhythm of the tides, struggling to recall the lessons of her youth long buried beneath her formal training.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sylvanas heard the rustle of the lookout’s clothing and the adjustment of the spyglass far above her before anything. Then, a deep breath and: “Warchief, there are ships leaving the docks!”

Sylvanas smiled – right on time. The ships stationed here represented no real threat; at worst they’d try to make a run for it. At best they’d make a stand and die quickly once she maneuvered in behind them. They were just rounding into the cove now. Her fingers played with the arrow already nocked in her bow.

“Two – no, three! They’re at half-sail, circling around!”

A blockade, then? Bold of them, considering the number of ships approaching. Her smile lessened slightly as flickers of irritation ate at her mood. This was unexpected behavior. 

“More ships, Warchief! Five at full sail! Kul-Tiran ships of the line! Green sails and silver prows!”

“Damn it!” she cursed, the power in her voice throwing an unsuspecting crewman to the ground as she spun around. Already her mind wheeled through tactics. A flanking tactic was pointless now; she’d be blown out of the water before inflicting any damage. Five warships would make mincemeat of her fleet. There would be no naval victory, but the Azerite was a priority. 

“Captain! Bring us about and take us away from the cove and ashore quickly! Full sail! Use every spell you can! Nathanos, get a message off to the other ships to disengage; they should remain at a distance unless I order otherwise. Once we reach shore, we will set up a portal between the ships and unload troops.”

“Yes, Warchief!” the captain shouted, barking orders and setting the crew into motion. 

Nathanos approached, a lich beside him muttering communication spells. “What of our surprise attack, my Queen? Could we not board and dismantle whatever ships are in the blockade before the Kul-Tiran ships can come about?”

Sylvanas thought only a moment before shaking her head. “We cannot. The presence of the Kul-Tiran fleet means our own ships are unlikely to fare well. Even if we remove the blockade they may not even make landfall. 

“No. We must first reach the shore, then we can amass a proper assault. Once we have scouts on the ground, we can determine flanking options. The forests will be our ally more so than the waves at this point.” 

“I shall see to it,” Nathanos said, turning to speak to the Lich. 

Sylvanas stowed the dangling arrow and stalked back to her cabin. Her hunt was now a good hour off again; her frustration exuded from her eyes, bathing the walls in a dull crimson glow.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Lady Proudmoore, the Horde is routing!” shouted the watchman, a Sergeant Molson. Jaina lacked his spyglass, but she could see their sails as they turned about and ran, mages or shamans clearly augmenting the ships’ speed.

Jaina rubbed her furrowed brow. “What tactic is this? They don’t gain anything from it. Are they just retreating?”

“Didn’t expect you here, I’d imagine,” Sargent Molson said, still following the action. “You were early, after all.”

“So, we have a security leak.” Jaina sighed as weariness crept up her bones again. Blind luck and her sour mood had apparently saved this island. “One more thing to add to the pile of things to do.” 

But the Tides whispered. She made no sense of their mutterings, but that did not matter. They whispered, and she heard; and she had a great many ways with which to gain insight. 

Relaxing her vision, Jaina pulled at her mana and began threading together a farsight spell. The watchtower faded around her as she cast her sight across the harbor, then the surrounding forests. Higher and higher she climbed, striving for the birds-eye-view that she needed to make sense of things. She saw the Horde fleet, a mixture or orcish and Zandalari vessels. She saw the Kul-Tiran fleet as they gave chase and the Stormwind blockade outside the docks. She saw the soldiers as they fortified the base perimeter of the camp, setting up blockades and fortifications around the dockside buildings in case any forces made landfall. Higher and higher she went, reaching for the clouds, then looking down.

Along the coast to the south, a lone Forsaken ship sat with its skull-shaped prow beached, its crew pouring across the sands and into the forest. Jaina swooped down, racing towards the ship. Scores of undead; mostly warriors, some Dark Rangers, a few casters, and…

And behind them, the crimson gaze of a dead elven woman whose identity could never be mistaken, blackened trails of tears burned permanently into her greyed, scowling face. 

_Sylvanas Windrunner was here!_

The distraction left her unfocused and her spell work collapsed, pulling at her mana pool. She stumbled forward with a painful gasp, momentarily blinded.

“Lady Proudmoore?” 

Jaina felt strong hands at her waist and shoulder, steadying her. She stumbled clumsily until she found the railing and leaned heavily on it.

“Lady Proudmoore, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, annoyed at the black spots still blocking her vision. “I saw what I needed to see. We have an attack to the south of the base. We’ll need reinforcements.” 

“But you just brought us more soldiers, Lady Proudmoore!” Sergeant Molson protested. “Surely, we have enough to repel them?”

“The Warchief is here, Sergeant. This is no ordinary attack.”

Colour drained from the man’s face as he saluted. “Yes, ma’am! I’ll tell the Major right away!”

Jaina carefully made her way down the stairs in the wake of the panicked soldier and out into the center of the base, mindful of her spotty sight. The appearance of the Warchief was a serious threat. Sylvanas Windrunner was both unhinged and a brilliant tactician, and Jaina did not feel remotely secure in her position. There was no better counter to the threat of a Windrunner than another Windrunner. With luck, she could facilitate exactly that.

Reaching for her power again, she fell into an easy portal spell, her pattern worming across space to Boralus. When she felt her destination, she willed the tendril of energy to expand. Like a curtain parting to a stage, reality itself opened. Taking one step forward, Jaina crossed from the sandy dirt of the camp to the cobblestone of her home city. The familiar cold, humid air rushed across her face and body like a bucket of water. 

“Soldier!” Jaina called, waving to the nearest person wearing Alliance blues. “Fetch me Alleria Windrunner, or whoever’s in charge of the Alliance garrison! Hurry!” As the woman saluted and rushed off, Jaina repeated a similar order to a Kul-Tiran guard, who rushed off towards the Proudmoore barracks. Her messages sent, she tried to relax and focus on the portal. 

“Lady Jaina, you sent for me?” 

Alleria Windrunner shared family traits with her sister the Warchief. Thin, aristocratic features and a symmetrical beauty almost painful to look at directly. Alleria, however, was alive: Long, blond hair in loose curls; pale skin unmarked by over a thousand years of life; arcane energy dancing in her eyes. She had been a hero to the Alliance the entirety of Jaina’s life and likely would long after, too.

At another time Jaina would surely draw Alleria into conversation, hoping to sound like the learned scholar she was and not the starstruck child she must certainly be in this woman’s eyes. But the impending battle made that impossible now – something that Jaina found rather irritating.

“Sylvanas is attacking the island I was resupplying,” Jaina said bluntly. “She’s there right now, and I need reinforcements.”

The soft glow of Alleria’s eyes focused to a dangerous gleam. Her shoulders squared, and her long ears stood straight and turned slightly back in anger. Jaina was somewhat tall for a human woman; as a quel’dorei-born elf, Alleria stood a few inches shorter than Jaina herself. But as she donned the guise of the Ranger-General, a woman who’d fought a thousand years and more across this world and others, she seemed to grow ten feet tall. 

She was inspiring, intimidating, and captivating.

“Hold the portal, Lady Jaina. I’ll rally everyone I can.”

Then she turned and stalked off, her forest-green cloak billowing out behind her. 

With a deep breath, she turned her attention away from admiring the retreating elf and stepped back through the portal to wait.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“There is a portal open in the courtyard,” the lich beside Sylvanas stated, lost in his farsight. Another stood nearby holding a portal to the Horde ships as warriors poured out in a parade of foul language and clanking armor. “A mage is holding it open and Alliance reinforcements are coming through.”

“Show me.” 

With a gesture, the Lich conjured an illusion in the air beside him, matching his vision. Sylvanas’ ears pinned backwards as she snarled.

“Jaina Proudmoore. Fuck.” 

The grass and shrubs behind the illusion moved with the force of her voice, kicking up a small cloud of dust. The lich stepped away from her, its exposed ribs quivering slightly in fear. He held the illusion well, though, and Sylvanas glared at the image of a much-hated enemy.

Behind her, the noise of the soldiers lessened considerably, and soft footsteps that could only be a Dark Ranger approached.

“My Queen, all of our soldiers are here and ready,” Nathanos said as he came to stand beside her. His eyes narrowed, glowing like embers as he scrutinized the image.

“Take half the rangers and all the other troops, but leave me the Forsaken,” Sylvanas decided. “I will be the smaller initial strike. Scout the terrain as best you can. Wait a full two minutes after I strike before starting your own. Be swift.”

Nathanos nodded but continued to stare at the image, stroking his dark goatee in a habit he kept from his living days. His eyes darting around at the Alliance troops organizing themselves. “Should we not strike in force? They have an impressive force now.”

“The heart of the issue is the woman holding their portal. She alone is worth a division of soldiers.”

Nathanos scowled. “Proudmoore is a diplomat at heart, not a warrior. We can easily outmaneuver her.”

The urge to strike out at Nathanos was great; in her frustration she very nearly did. As it was, the man took a step back and bowed, recognizing the increasing glow in her eyes as a threat. Clearly, he chose not to remember exactly now powerful the mage was. 

Once, Proudmoore had marched alone from her newly-destroyed city to the Horde capital of Orgrimmar, an army of water elementals at her command. Only a desperate appeal to her virtues by a former Warchief and Proudmoore’s then-lover had prevented her from drowning everyone. 

Then only months ago, Proudmoore almost single-handedly won the Battle of Lordaeron, flying in on a warship she had enchanted and using its cannons and her magic to rout the Horde, freezing her unleashed Blight to the ground and killing scores of soldiers with each volley. With the Blight’s threat neutralized, their walls in ruins and a great number of them dead, the Alliance army had crushed their defenses and swarmed the Undercity. The actions of one woman had chased Sylvanas from her home.

Sylvanas understood Proudmoore’s rage; the rage of betrayal. It resonated very closely with her own. She would never underestimate that rage and the power the woman could bring to bear. But she also wanted vengeance.

“Proudmoore has already noticed us and summoned help, Nathanos. It would be foolish in the extreme to think her unprepared. No, our only advantage now is that they are still gathering while we are ready to strike. 

“Go. Quickly. She is distracted and must maintain her portal; she will focus on me and be unprepared for you.”

“Of course, my Queen.”

She and Nathanos quickly divided the troops, and then Nathanos commandeered a lich and transported his forces to the north. In seconds, there was silence as her undead Forsaken stared at her in fear and adoration. This was no simple raid, but an attack in which many of them would die a True Death, unable to be raised again – and they knew that.

“This is no longer a fight for resources,” she said, pacing back and forth in front of them. “This is now a fight for revenge! The bitch that cost us our Undercity is here, my Forsaken!”

Loud grumbles and curses echoed through the air. 

“Jaina Proudmoore is more than just a symbol to the Alliance; Jaina Proudmoore _IS_ the Alliance! Their leaders are weak, and their armies wounded, Blighted and frail. Their fleets are reliant on her power and leadership! Without her, they are nothing! Kill Proudmoore and we win this war! Whoever brings me her head will know great rewards!”

Cheers and shouts erupted, eager boasts and promises! “I shall, my Queen!” “She is dead, Dark Lady!” “She will not survive!” 

The lich still near to her glanced up from his scrying and tapped her on the shoulder; Nathanos was in position. It was time.

“We are ready! Dark Rangers to the front! Form your battle units! Mages, your portals!” Sylvanas hoisted her bow above her head. “Death to the Lord Admiral! For our home! For the Forsaken! _For the Horde!_ ”

With a deafening cry, her armies surged forward through portals straight into the Alliance camp, murdering several who were slow to react. Sylvanas followed through, running towards Jaina Proudmoore, a Blighted arrow already flying towards the startled mage’s head.

\---== {(0)} ==---

From far out at sea, a many-eyed head bobbed in the water, watching the mortals clash in their pointless battle. Influential leaders were present, and that meant an unprecedented opportunity to weaken both factions.  
Silently he sunk below the waves. His Queen would want to know, and maybe even allow him to kill in her name. 


	2. Aces High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life: Oh, you started a fic? Let's throw _everything_ at you!   
>  Me: Nyah! Still updated!
> 
> In this chapter, I hope to earn that "Graphic Depictions of Violence" warning. Hopefully everything reads well; it was a lot harder to write than I thought it would be. Let's get the battle started!
> 
> Also: Look up _Aces High_ by Iron Maiden. I had that on repeat for quite a while.

The arrow flew swift and true, a sickly green mist trailing in its wake. Jaina’s eyes, still wide with surprise, locked with Sylvanas’ malevolent gaze.

An instant before impacting it gave a sharp crack and hovered mid-air, suspended halfway through a translucent forcefield. The Blight hissed as it dripped down both sides of the barrier, causing the energy to spark and flare in reaction before the enchantment faded and the arrow fell to the ground.

Jaina’s enchanted clothing caught several more arrows. Then the liches came through their own portals, and fireballs and arcane bolts of energy battered her defences. Around her, Alliance soldiers struggled to form a line between the Horde’s portals and their own; many were cut down before they could raise a weapon.

“Kill the mages!” Sylvanas shouted. She snapped off three additional arrows as she charged in behind her warriors. One connected with a younger mage, slamming into his forehead and sending him to the ground twitching as the Blight ate into his brain.

A towering Tauren death knight charged at Jaina with is horns low, closing the gap with unnatural speed.

Sylvanas ran in silently behind him as she threw her bow carelessly over her shoulder to hang by its string and drew twin curved blades made of gleaming Azerite. 

The death knight’s enormous axe forced Jaina to react, summoning a thick wall of ice directly in its path. The axe crushed through the ice, but its diminished momentum failed completely against Jaina’s armor.

Sylvanas appeared suddenly, her blades stabbing down at Jaina’s exposed upper chest. The blades sheared through the defensive enchantments enough for one of them to nick into the mage’s skin, drawing a thin line of blood across the top of her breast before being forced away. 

The portal behind Jaina flickered slightly as she summoned a response.

Jaina’s face contorted with effort and she stamped the butt end of her staff to the ground. An icy blast of air exploded outwards, sending the the death knight and Sylvanas flying away. With a sharp, well-practised gesture guiding her thoughts, a shimmering arcane barrier formed around her.

Sylvanas flipped gracefully over to land lightly on her feet, hopping back twice to dispel her momentum. Instantly her blades were stowed, and she swung her bow back around, launching arrows at a blistering rate. Around her the Forsaken rallied, a withering barrage of arrows, bolts, spellfire and the sharp retort of several rifles. Jaina’s shield warped and bent but held against the onslaught. She returned fire with a wide swath of flames, scattering the undead around her. Sharp lances of ice formed and shot out, impaling those spellcasters too slow to shield themselves. 

Sylvanas smirked as she drew an arrow with a thick, black head and sent it trailing after the others. 

Jaina turned towards the portal, shouting something as the black arrow struck. The arrowhead detonated with a roaring explosion, shattering the shield and throwing Jaina to the dirt. As she struggled to stand, Sylvanas sent a second explosive arrow, which struck the wounded mage square in the chest. Then she drew another Blighted one with a growing sense of triumph.

Jaina screamed in agony as she slid, bounced and rolled along the ground. Her staff clattered and sparked as it came long with her, bound to her as surely as a third arm. Blood poured across her hands as she clutched at her chest; her clothing hung in tatters, her flesh ruptured, blistered and burnt. 

Crossbow quarrels slammed into her. One gouged into the side of her head before her weakened enchantments turned it away, a grisly gob of flesh and hair on its tip. One broke though completely, slamming through her exposed bosom and lodging into her ribs, sending a new wave of torment through her body. Fighting through the pain, she pulled her legs in, hiding her body behind the more intact magics in her leggings and boots. Bullets and arrows bounced off, some leaving painful bruises in their wake.

Sylvanas’ Blighted arrow impaled her through her thigh, the burn of the viscous green poison immediately worse than all her other injuries combined.

The portal fluctuated violently, sending incoming Alliance soldiers flying, its warping edges severing arms and legs completely.

Still there were no other mages, none had responded to her call. With a primal scream Jaina called for ice, coating herself in a carapace several feet thick. She poured herself into the portal weaving, overloading the fraying threads of spellwork and forcing the portal wide. Without the portal and other mages to create one, her people were doomed.

Blindly, she teleported from inside the ice, shifting herself a hundred paces off, immediately beginning an invisibility spell as she looked desperately for a place of safety to see to her dire injuries.

The Forsaken assaulted the ice cage with all manner of weapons, her largest warriors finally bringing the barrier crumbling down — but Proudmoore was not there.

Sylvanas whipped her head around, spotting the mage quickly and readying another arrow, but the archmage vanished from sight almost immediately. Sylvanas let the arrow fly in frustration. She had been so close…! 

The Alliance exploited their enemies’ distraction and their newly enlarged portal, coming through three abreast. A paladin held a dome-shaped shield of Light around the portal while two Draenei shamans sent fire and lightning ahead of them, scattering the Forsaken and allowing defensive lines to form. 

Sylvanas turned to support her lines, a careful ear open for the archmage she knew was slowly dying, but still perhaps dangerous.

The battle sounded oddly muted from the formerly vacant watchtower. Jaina sucked in painful, gasping breaths as she reached into the air in front of her. Her disciplined mind wove a familiar cantrip, drawing a tiny sliver from the power flowing out toward the portal. Her trembling hand disappeared into a dimensional pocket, returning quickly with a large bluish potion bottle. Bloody, slippery fingers fumbled with the stopper and she downed the contents greedily, sighing in relief as a cold, numbing sensation flowed into her chest and her flesh began to stitch itself back together. 

She reached back into the fold in space to pull out thick, medicated bandages and additional restorative potions. The creeping fire in her leg would be fatal very shortly without drastic action.

With her mind clearer, she directed raw arcane energy at the bolt and arrow embedded in her flesh, disintegrating them completely. She took a large pull from her next potion to get those wounds closing and stripped off her leggings. Already the darkened tendrils of the Blight reached most of the way to her foot and halfway up her thigh, slowed only somewhat by the potion’s healing effects. She quickly coiled the bandages loosely around her leg and took a steadying breath.

Now for the hard part. 

Downing the rest of her second potion and readying the third, she called tendrils of her strongest ice spell, aiming them into her own leg. From the core of her bones and working her way outward, she methodically lowered the temperature of her leg. Five degrees per breath, over and over, until she reached freezing – and beyond.

The potion in her system muted the pain, but her body rebelled at her actions nonetheless. A powerful nausea shook her stomach and she had to pause to expel bile and the inert remains of her potions, along with some leftover scraps of food.

Turning away from the putrid mess beside her, she resumed her steady breaths. Five degrees at a time. The Blight Sylvanas Windrunner used was designed during the war with the Lich King. In order to be effective in the polar conditions of Northrend, its freezing temperature was more than fifty degrees below zero. As the flesh froze and hardened, it forced the still-liquid poison outward; farther and farther until it cracked her frozen, unfeeling skin, bubbling and oozing out. 

Jaina mopped the disgusting substance away from her leg with the bandages, stopping twice to sip from her next potion for pain relief. Once she saw no further evidence of the Blight, she drank the entirety of the potion and reversed her energy flow, sending heat slowly back into her leg. As the flesh warmed, the potion set to work restoring function, keeping the flesh from dying.

When she could stand, she called for fire and destroyed the Blight-covered bandages and her leggings. She also pulled off the useless remains of her corset. She chuckled darkly as she threw the clothing on the fire. Would she fulfill some disgusting Forsaken fantasy to reappear and prance about the battlefield nearly naked, her charred breasts bouncing and her cloak fluttering in the wind?

She had no time to devote to conjuring clothing – it took too long, and she needed to see to her people. She tied a bandage tightly around her breasts to offer some support and help soothe the lingering burn. Her chest and face were still black from the explosion. Her breasts were raw and seeping blood, but they were far improved from the utter devastation they’d been just a few moments ago. Her leg was bright red from the infection and her extreme measures to purge it; she’d be limping a little, but that couldn’t be helped. 

It would take a long session with a trained healer to remove the scars from this battle. That and a long bath.

Layering temporary protections across her body and pulling her still-intact cloak closed, Jaina summoned a replica image around her, giving her the appearance of perfect health and her usual battle dress. She then vanished from her temporary haven, eager to return Sylvanas’ lethal ambush with violence of her own. 

Exactly two minutes into the Forsaken assault, the second wave crashed in from the north. Orcs, Tauren, trolls and goblins all bellowed and charged, projectiles and spells leading the way. Alliance lines buckled and broke as they struggled to realign themselves to defend on two fronts. 

Alliance soldiers rallied around the paladin and formed new lines around their portal. The conspicuous absence of their Lord Admiral ate at their resolve, though. They looked jittery and unsure, several glancing longingly back at the portal and the reinforcements rushing through it, weighing their inevitable arrest for desertion against the relief of still being alive.

Four of the largest, most heavily armoured orc warriors in Nathanos’ group broke off at his order, spearheading the charge into the Alliance lines. A savage axe swing tore one defender in half, the shock evident on her face as her legs fell to the ground while her torso flew away, carried by the enormous weapon that had murdered her. Another orc slammed into the next soldier in line, battering him with repeated overhand blows with a giant war hammer until the man lay broken underfoot, his mangled shield draped across him like a funerary shroud.

From behind the orcs a Tauren shaman came, his magics erasing the minor wounds the vanguard suffered. To his flanks, the Dark Rangers and Nathanos himself strode, blighted arrows wounding and killing, driving the lines back towards their portal and stalling their reinforcing troops. Behind them still, the remaining Horde forces gathered. Sylvanas’ Forsaken joined their comrades’ ranks, harrying the front lines and driving the Alliance back while the four orcs pressed on toward the lone, weakening paladin holding the front of the portal, the draenei shamans at his sides flagging with exhaustion.

Four arrows flew through the portal, each spearing an orc through their eye slits, dropping them lifelessly to the ground and breaking the forward press.

Alleria Windrunner exploded through the shimmering gateway, jumping over the beleaguered paladin and Draenei. A flashing longsword decapitated a Forsaken warrior and plunged upward through the skull of the next. Then she was gone, sucked into the darkness of a void portal.

The cry of a dark ranger announced her reappearance, the undead elf’s arm flying away. Cloaked in the living shadow of the void, Alleria sent those raw energies across the Horde lines, sending them fleeing for safety and dissolving those who failed into piles of undulating shadowy pus.

At the portal other void elves emerged: a priestess who tended to the paladin and Draenei, and a mage whose arcane barrage routed the last of the Forsaken, sending the Horde into a full retreat.

With an unholy wail, Sylvanas flew across the battlefield in a mass of shadows and descended upon Alleria. Alleria disappeared through a rift in the void, only to reappear firing a volley of arrows. 

The Banshee Queen dodged around a blast of raw, corruptive shadow and unleashed her scream, a cone of destruction chasing Alleria around the camp and tearing apart any hapless Alliance or Horde soldier in the way.

Sister met sister and blades clashed and danced, the ring of metal screaming endlessly as each searched for a killing blow. Around them the dark mists of undeath hissed and bubbled against the unnatural shadows of the void.

Nathanos Blightcaller bellowed orders as the Alliance lines charged forward to take advantage of the suddenly retreating Horde. His Queen was busy with her sister; more and more spellcasters appeared to bolster the Alliance forced. Clearly, a more desperate play was needed to regain momentum.

Nathanos pulled two grenades from his belt and threw them towards the Alliance portal. They hit the ground and detonated with an odd hiss, spreading the caustic Blight across the ground in a widening pool that sent the Alliance into their own scurrying retreat; more importantly, it gave him a chance to stabilize the Horde back into a semblance of attack form.

The Alliance had given up their portal now, keeping just out of reach of the sickly green miasma. Just as the mist reached the portal, it snapped shut, gently pushing Alliance forces away on both sides.

Impossible cold wind howled across the creeping Blight, freezing it solid to the ground. 

With a crack of energy, Jaina Proudmoore appeared, her eyes alight with fury and power.

Nathanos unloaded arrow after arrow at the archmage. “For our Queen!” He called. “The Warchief calls for Proudmoore’s head!”

Arrows, bolts, bullets, bombs, axes, spells and javelins rained down toward Jaina’s shield. As the first shots struck, she opened another portal – one that exited just behind the Horde lines. 

Screams and chaos erupted as their own volley of projectiles struck their liches and shamans. Several bombs detonated, sending orcs and undead flying. A Blight grenade exploded on the back of a tall Tauren, sending him to the ground screaming as the ooze ate away his fur and flesh.

Jaina sent a storm of arcane energy at Nathanos, destroying his bow and tearing the flesh from his hands. Another wave followed; and another, sending him and the other dark rangers scurrying behind the barriers hastily erected by a pair of blood elf paladins.

“Reestablish the portal to Boralus!” Jaina called. “Send one to Stormwind! We need reinforcements!”

Behind Jaina, the void elf mage reopened the portal to Boralus. A worgen mage stepped through and opened a portal to Stormwind. Across the way, Nathanos hassled a lich to create a portal to Orgrimmar. At the Lord Admiral’s call, several large columns of water bulged upwards and stepped out onto the docks; the water elementals surged forth, searching for targets to please their master. 

Alleria broke away from Sylvanas, disappearing into the void and reappearing at the portal leading to Stormwind. Quickly, she dashed through and sped toward the castle in a series of void jaunts.

Sylvanas fired her remaining explosive and Blighted arrows at Alliance soldiers, targeting priests, mages, and anyone else whose rank was obvious. Chaos was her goal now; her first objective – assassinating Jaina Proudmoore - had failed. Clearly the “diplomat” had learned a thing or two over the years, enough to keep herself alive. The fight was now about Azerite. Both sides pressed towards the docks and the crates of precious cargo still lined up along the piers.

Nathanos tossed her his quiver as best he could with stumps for hands; Sylvanas discarded her old one and affixed the new. Both quivers would supply endless arrows but had limited stock of explosive and Blighted ammunition. 

The roar of a fireball accompanied the heat of the explosion. To her left, charred corpses of Horde soldiers littered a large gap in her lines. Across the way, she found the deadly gaze of Jaina Proudmoore.

Sylvanas snapped off another explosive arrow. This time Jaina’s shield held, wobbling only slightly. Another, and another. The second did little better. The third shimmered slightly and reversed direction, forcing the banshee to roll out of the way as it cut the air above her. Behind her, the detonation claimed more Horde lives.

The rushing of water met her ears, and Sylvanas relaxed herself into shadow, flowing apart and away in tendrils of black mist from the crashing column of seawater as the elemental charged. She fired two Blighted arrows into the liquid mass as she reformed, stepping away as it thrashed painfully. When she returned her gaze to the archmage, Proudmoore was gone.

Ears straining to parse the noise of combat, Sylvanas scoured the camp for her enemy. She nearly missed the sound next to her and ducked low as she whirled. The spell went high, and Sylvanas slashed through, her Azerite blade carving through Jaina’s leg … and pelvis… effortlessly…

The blade cut clean through the illusion and it dissipated. Sylvanas whipped her head around as three more Jaina’s appeared near her, each casting a spell.

A different spell. Moving different directions. Different looks of anger and concentration. All three hearts beat rapidly with distractingly different rhythms. All three smelled of blood, sweat and whatever disgusting sailor’s cologne the mage used. 

With a snarl of fury Sylvanas launched into the air, dodging spells with a twist of her wraith-like form, and unleashing her keening cry at the ground below. All three of her attackers vanished in its wake. Her eyes flared brightly in surprise. That meant —

Her wail ended with a painful grunt as violet arcane energy slammed into her, disintegrating skin and sending her into a slow roll to the ground. Her assailant, now visible, took a moment to launch several lethal fireballs at the Horde line. Just as Sylvanas found her feet again, Jaina vanished, the telltale sparkles of teleportation fading in her place. 

Proudmoore reappeared behind her, sending a barrage of ice lances streaming toward her. Sylvanas dropped her bow and drew her second blade, hacking down each projectile as it neared her. More images of the archmage appeared, and she moved like a fury, ghosting around them like a shadow and slashing them down as they formed. 

The illusions slowed in their movements but continued to appear. Again, and again she destroyed them, until only one remained. One that teleported away before she could more than scratch at her staff— The mage that reappeared was not the pristine and untouchable Jaina Proudmoore; no, what appeared before her was the dirty charred mess she desired to see – blackened skin, seeping wounds, her clothing destroyed or discarded, breasts barely held together with a medicinal wrap already stained red. Her leg clearly traumatized from the Blight infection. The waft of burnt flesh. The wheeze of labored breathing.

“There you are.” Triumphantly, Sylvanas charged at the mage, her blades set to end the fight against the tired mage. She thrust both swords in just under the mage’s bosom, blades angled upward to slice into her heart. The mage crumpled over, but…

But where was the feel of flesh tearing against steel? Where was the pressure? Her hands felt free – and cold, as though –

The illusion vanished and for an instant Sylvanas saw the truth: That her hands were through a portal. Then it snapped shut, taking her hands and blades. An irritating pain itched at her forearms, almost teasing her as her ruined gauntlets fell from her arms.

The hum of energy and displacement of air gave her a split-second; Sylvanas whirled, a powerful roundhouse kick smashing into an invisible obstacle – Jaina’s staff. A new forcefield appeared, the dome enveloping them both. 

Sylvanas carried her momentum into a spinning sidekick, but Jaina was already moving, collapsing in on herself in a shower of violet motes only to appear at some distance outside the dome. In her stead, a small bead of fire fell gently to the ground, growing larger by the heartbeat.

Sylvanas pressed against the dome, desperate to escape the growing sphere behind her. She kicked away at the dirt at its lip, freeing a small pocket of air. She began her transformation to mist—

The sphere detonated, slamming her half-corporeal form into and through the arcane dome. The barrier shattered her arm and shoulder, her bones and the dome breaking at the same time. Her skin cracked and charred, coming apart like soil baked in the sun and exposing the lighter grey of her muscles and tendons underneath. Her own knee plate tore a hole in her cheek as she tumbled across the ground.

Unlike her hands, _this_ pain was exquisite and wonderful. Truly, she’d not felt so much – felt so _good_ – felt _anything_ – in ages. The ache was delicious as Sylvanas righted herself and solidified, looking again for her enemy.

An enormous lance of ice speared into her chest and destroyed what was once her heart. It broke apart against her spine, nearly pushing her vertebrae through her skin. Other spears of ice impaled her arms, legs. One took her eye. Glorious, glorious pain. Across from her, Jaina stood with her staff raised, preparing what would surely be a killing blow.

Sylvanas screamed. 

The pressure and reverberation shattered the ice lodged in her body. It gouged the dirt from the ground, sending huge chunks of it everywhere. It exploded through a water elemental, rattling it to nothing but a fine mist. It slammed against Jaina’s hastily crafted ice shield, crushing it to powder as quickly as the mage backpedaled and summoned more behind it; her protection spells and illusory disguise failed in the backwash of destructive force echoing around the barrier. Alliance and Horde soldiers tumbled along the ground, wailing as blood poured from their ears, mouths, noses and eyes.

Then she was out of breath; and Jaina the only survivor in a path of utter devastation. The battle slowed to a halt, both sides jarred from the blast. The last of the ice shield crumbled to the ground, perhaps the loudest remaining noise on the battlefield.

They stood for a timeless instant, watching each other as officers shouted and armies slowly came to life around them. Jaina, her appearance somewhat less severe than her wounded illusion had portrayed, her nudity and injuries covered by her cloak. Sylvanas, her hands missing, her entire body a mess of charred and curling skin exposing muscle, tendon and bone. A gaping hole in place of her heart.

So much lived in the look they shared – hatred, respect, fear, the thrill of battle, the sorrow of unimaginable loss, the growing fatigue that accompanied every single action, every single day…

Then the moment ended. Jaina carelessly conjured a perfect image for herself and summoned some sort of pastry to nibble at while her mana shield reformed around her. 

Sylvanas changed completely into her mist like form, and solidified carefully from the outside in, moving injured and missing parts of her to the inside. Internal organs were useless to her after all; what did she care if they were torn up or missing? From the outside however, she looked perfectly uninjured, the hole in her breastplate and missing gauntlets the only indication of her ordeal.

The Horde and Alliance began their push towards the docks again. A rush of water announced the arrival of Jaina’s water elementals; as one they moved to stand between the Horde and Alliance, forming a nearly ten-foot high wall of living water. Earth elementals summoned by Horde shamans joined Death knights and the largest remaining Tauren and orcish warriors, forming a wall of their own.

Alleria reappeared from the Stormwind portal, with more reinforcements pouring through behind her. Horde mages strained to hold the portal to Orgrimmar as wide as possible as half the city struggled to get through. Powerful champions of both factions began to arrive; three Val’kyr appeared to raise the fallen Forsaken and heal those still moving. 

The two leaders remained as the battle of the docks began in earnest and the lines of their armies began to move away from them. Having finished her snack, Jaina pulled another potion from seemingly thin air while Sylvanas worked a battered, dented silver flask from her belt and flicked the lid open. She gave Jaina a mocking salute with it before taking a swig, feeling her insides begin to mend a little. Jaina’s slightly raised eyebrow was her only reply; she did drink with her, though.

One of Jaina’s elementals approached and lifted the archmage to its massive shoulders while she extended her shield to cover it. Sylvanas walked over and picked up her bow. She assumed her wraith like form and rose into the sky. With one last wary glance, the pair separated. Jaina swept along the ground atop her water elemental, searching out Alleria. Sylvanas flew across the Horde lines, looking for Nathanos.

\---== {(0)} ==---

On the seas, the Kul-Tiran fleet overtook the orcish and Zandalari ships after a merry chase, and the ships jockeyed for position as cannons fired and spellcasters unleashed the elements. The weaker ships of the Horde faired poorly, and Captain Robards felt that victory would be only a matter of minutes. A pained shout startled him from the enemy ships. The old Tidesage knelt on the ground, tears pouring unendingly from her eyes. With a shaking hand she pointed to the south. Her mouth moved, but no words would form.

The captain turned and pulled out his spyglass, scanning the horizon. To his eyes, it seemed as though a great deal of the ocean at the horizon line had bulged up; and was it growing bigger? Or was it getting…closer? His face grew ashen at the horrifying truth of what he saw. He stumbled more than once on his way to his mage; they need to alert the others; they needed to tell the Lord Admiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Azshara tries to capitalize on easy, squishy prey!


	3. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... this one took so many drafts, that I was tempted to post "as-is" and move on about four different times. It's an enormous chapter, but I've tried my best to follow the tone and pace of Chapter 2. The payoff: We get where we want to be.
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to JE_Talveran for helping me through the slumps with some clutch ideas and suggestions!

“She comes, she comes…” the Tidesage muttered, her gnarled hands white as they gripped the ship’s rail. “The Light in the Depths is rising, Captain.”

Robards spared her barely a glance; trust a Tidesage to demand your attention when you’re bringing your ship about to broadside. 

“FIRE!” He called as the ship began to cross his target’s rear. The roar of his starboard cannons answered him; the heavy crash of several impacts soon answered. 

The size of the oncoming wave scared him; even with magical assistance, it would be a nigh-impossible climb. But it would be completely impossible if he gave these Zandalari curs his flank.

“So be it! I will not fail the Lord Admiral!” Robards cast his eye back at his enemy, “What happened, Tidesage? Why is the sea coming at us like that?!”

“Azshara, Captain. Queen Azshara comes. She will end us all!”

“The Naga Queen? Why?! Is this the consequences of all that foolishness at your temple?”

“No, Captain.” The woman stared at the approaching tide. “She comes simply because she can.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

From the depths, she watched. She waited. More and more fools piled onto the island, drawn by the pretty, pretty rocks and the joy of killing for their betters.

And so, so many betters! So many little leaders came along, drawn in by their own pride and bloodlust! So many stupid, stupid mortals shooting and stabbing and casting their primitive little spells! They were right there for the taking… Just a few moments more, just a few more to come through those crude portals. Just one or two more leaders…

…and she would strike, and they would all die. It would be wonderful fun to throw some spells around and kill the baffled chattel. Her people would rejoice at the sport she allowed them.

She sighed, leaning back into one of her handmaidens. Her servant carefully ran skilled hands along the sensitive tentacles that long ago replaced her hair, creating a pleasant tingling sensation. More handmaidens massaged and caressed the thick tentacles that made up her lower body. Still more tended to her upper half, each rubbing gently along one of her four arms before reaching forward to massage her back, stomach and breasts. Slowly, they began to attach her armor along her arms and torso. They slipped bracelets with protective magics onto her lower limbs and whispered prayers over her body, exactly the way she liked.

Her most beautiful handmaiden floated in the waters before her, gentle hands working across her jaw and the ridges rising from her brow; her seven small, beautiful eyes staring adoringly as she lowered herself to leave light kisses on her Queen’s face. 

Ripples in the tide brushed against her as more and more warriors swam around her in gentle circles murmuring a song of worship. It was a simple song, hardly her favourite. But they were preparing for battle, so their plebeian choice would suffice… for now.

She closed her many eyes, returning her sight to the island and the battle. Just a few more moments to enjoy her worship. Her handmaiden placed a lingering kiss to her lips, and she opened her mouth in response, allowing it with a slight smile.

…Just a few more moments…

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Lady Proudmoore, elementals to the western edge! Alleria, covering fire! Silver Hand, _forward!_ ”

High Exarch Turalyon moved Alliance forces with the efficiency borne of a thousand years’ worth of battles. Alleria sent streams of arrows and void blasts over the heads of the charging paladins, and Jaina shuffled her water elementals around, closing gaps in the lines and giving much-needed cover to injured soldiers. 

Across enemy lines barely fifty feet away, she focused a light scrying spell to hear Matriarch Liadrin shouting similar orders in the ubiquitous orcish tongue of the Horde; a slightly jarring sound to come from the tall elven woman. Jaina understood the language quite well, and her ice barriers were in place to interrupt troop movements and intercept the return fire of Sylvanas and her Dark Rangers. Liadrin gave her a dour gaze as she sent that huge Tauren death knight and several orcs to intercept the paladins. 

Battle raged cross the docks as both armies pressed towards the cargo. Azerite, too reactive to transport in great bulk by magic, was stolen by both Alliance and Horde champions in mere handfuls. The champions dodged enemy fire and fought through assailants to run their prize back to a portal, spiriting the substance away to Stormwind or Orgrimmar. Bit by bit they picked at the pile; but more than two tons of the material remained.

With the escalating battle came endless reinforcements; with them, more experienced tactical leaders: Liadrin for the Horde, and Turalyon for the Alliance; both paladins of immeasurable skill and experience. They quickly took charge of the operation, whipping the rough lines into cogs in a well-oiled war machine. The Horde also fielded a tall, dark-skinned Nightborne mage of exceptional skill that Alleria identified to Jaina as First Arcanist Thalyssra. 

Jaina soon found herself in a quasi-duel with the other mage as the elf fought her for control of the water elementals while also attempting to dispel the broad arcane shields Jaina kept over her section of the Alliance line and holding a shield of her own on top of that. Jaina kept pace: She altered the weave of her shield to foil the dispel, she rearranged the command matrix of her summoning spells to constantly re-issue orders to the elementals on a fixed interval, and then returned the favor by creating a spellweave along the bottom of Thalyssra’s shield to drain its power into the leylines below. 

Thalyssra furrowed her brow in concentration as she adjusted to the attack, and the two began again. Both mages sported small smiles as they worked their wills against each other; in any other setting, this would be a fun contest.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sylvanas flew along the Alliance lines, harassing with banshee cries and explosive arrows. Every alliance arrow or spell fired in her direction was a spell not aimed at her Val’kyr while they set about refreshing her Forsaken, as well as raising those who had already fallen in battle. While powerful, a ten-foot-tall winged woman wielding powerful necromancy made for a very conspicuous target; and so, she would dance across the front, presenting the Alliance with an even more tempting target. So long as the Val’kyr survived, her army was virtually immortal.

She took a moment to launch a blighted arrow at a water elemental, delighting as the thing flailed about, soaking its alliance allies in the poison. Her smile was quickly stolen as the elemental about-faced and charged at the Horde, diving at a group of living soldiers and crashing over them like a huge wave as it came apart and died. Shamans rushed forward to try to save the dozens affected, but most would quickly be lost. 

From behind her shield, Proudmoore grinned with vindictive pleasure. 

The troll champion who’d been leading that pack bellowed and unleashed a cascade of lightning against the Archmage’s shield. Proudmoore responded by teleporting behind the troll and spearing him through with an ice lance. She teleported again as the troll turned to attack, leaving behind a delayed fireball whose explosion sent the troll sprawling to the dirt, severely burnt. 

As the troll fought to rise, Jaina appeared beside him and a bolt of arcane energy vaporized his skull. She then popped back behind her shield as Sylvanas’ arrows cut through the air where she’d just been.

“Play your games, mage,” Sylvanas growled. “We’ll see how long you last.” She spoke quietly, but Proudmoore’s eyes widened and snapped to her as her voice echoed in the mage’s head. The banshee allowed herself a smirk. “Perhaps you’ll join the Forsaken yet, _Lord Admiral._ ”

Proudmoore turned her attention back to Thalyssra. Sylvanas scanned the Alliance for another target when the archmage appeared beside her – her image, at any rate. Behind the shield, the real Proudmoore had resumed trading spells with the First Arcanist.

“You talk big,” the illusion said, pointing at her, “but you caught me completely by surprise when you attacked; you had me with my pants down holding that portal open. You hit me with everything you had, and you _still_ couldn’t kill me. When I fought you properly, you couldn’t even _touch_ me.” The illusion poked her in the chest – and to Sylvanas’ surprise, she felt it. “I, however, have no such issues.”

The illusion faded and Sylvanas quickly moved on, harassing the Alliance champions as they rushed forward toward the crates of Azerite. She’d not give Proudmoore the satisfaction of seeing her frustration. The opportunity to remove her as an enemy had been perfect, but it failed — and now the Horde suffered. They were collecting Azerite, but they could have easily raided elsewhere; she could have called off the attack when she first saw the Lord Admiral present.

Now… now this was a mess. Her Forsaken could be recovered. The rest… Well, it was on the other leaders that they wished their dead to remain dead. Liadrin would help minimize losses, but a warrior’s worth in Azerite was a fair bit more than the armloads they could carry. Unless they could claim most of the cargo, she could only see this raid as a failure.

The rest of the Horde leadership would, too. 

Ahead of her, Alleria brought her horrifying void corruption to bear against her Forsaken, and she shook off her and rushed forward to intercept.

\---== {(0)} ==---

As a powerful Worgen mage took over for her, Jaina teleported behind the lines. For lack of options, she sat heavily on an overturned wheelbarrow, spinning the wheel as she caught her breath. This fight was endless; and now pointless. The dying cries of good men and women tortured her ears as they struggled for handfuls of … of _garbage._ She’d have called to withdraw by now… but Turalyon’s appearance robbed her of absolute command. She was certain that if she called a retreat, all Tirisians and a maybe a third of the champions would respond…

…and there would be consequences. Consequences that she, Kul-Tiras, and the Alliance in general did not need. 

She caught the eyes of Alleria, who spoke to a slender void elf, a priestess of some sort. Given the antithetical nature of the void and light, Jaina assumed the former. She also looked the part: Dark robes, pale indigo skin, a washed-out azure glow to her eyes, and deep purple hair. Alleria then disappeared into one of her void rifts, no doubt to harass her sister. The priestess hurried in her direction, Jaina could see the depth of the hold the void had on her: strange dark patterns scrawled across her skin, and shadowy tendrils of _something_ flickering amidst her hair. 

“Lady Proudmoore,” she whispered in a soft voice, “I am Carissa Windwhisper. Lady Alleria has asked me to see to your wounds, if you would permit it.” She looked away as the tendrils framing her face curled outwards.

“You’re a shadow priest, I imagine?”

Carissa ducked her head and wrung her hands nervously. “My apologies if that offends you. I can fetch another—”

“No,” Jaina interrupted, reaching out to still the elf’s clasped hands. “It was merely an observation. In truth, I welcome any help you can offer. Please.”

Jaina glanced around and, certain of their momentary privacy, dropped her illusion.

“Oh, my!” Carissa exclaimed. “This is… what has happened to you?”

“The Warchief happened to me.”

“May I…? Excuse my touch.” Carissa placed one hand against Jaina’s heart, and another on her leg. A soothing flow of calm whispers washed lightly against her skin like a warm shower, or perhaps an over-eager young water elemental demanding a hug. The remaining irritation faded away, carried along with the murmuring spell. 

Caught in the pleasant sensation, Jaina reached out to the whispers, just as she did the Tides. A pleasant rippling sensation followed.

“Oh!” Carissa exclaimed. Her ears pinned back in shock, then crumpled down in pleasure. Her eyes fluttered closed, her mouth open; her healing prayer forgotten. 

Jaina pulled back immediately, closing off the flow of mana. “I’m so sorry,” she said, reddening with embarrassment. “That was very inappropriate of me.”

“No, please! Don’t stop…!” Carissa’s eyes blinked open, and she glanced around. Quickly she stepped back, clearing her throat and brushing nonexistent dust from her front. “I — I mean, it’s clearly not an option now, on the battlefield, but… but Lady… that…”

Jaina took the moment to thoroughly clean the soot and grime from her body before reapplying her illusory disguise. “Come to me in Boralus when this is over,” she said. “We’ll discuss what, exactly, that was when we’re not in the midst of battle.”

“Yes, my Lady!” Carissa straightened and offered a salute. “And thank you! I will go and find others to heal!” She rushed off faster than Jaina could offer a farewell.

Shaking her head at the oddities of elves and magic, Jaina stood and steeled herself to once again join the fray…

…then gasped as Tides screamed.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Mishan Waycrest struggled to keep her ship righted as the water rose ahead of them. A wave of monstrous proportions grew by the second, stretching as far as the eye could see. The Horde ships lay far behind them now, all damaged and slow-sailing.

Her mage’s elementals pushed the ship as fast as it could go, an artificial wind keeping the sails full. She struggled to keep her breath even as she aimed her ship straight towards the heaving sea, a suicide run to climb the rising mountain of water that spelled certain doom for her, her crew, and everyone behind them on the island. 

“I’m sorry, Tan,” she whispered to the waves. “I don’t think I’ll be coming home this time.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

Azshara opened her eyes. _”Now.”_ A massive surge of arcane energy flowed at her will, and she and all her followers vanished.

\---== {(0)} ==---

A powerful force knocked the clashing armies apart. Naga arrived one after the other in a flurry of teleportations, and behind them Azshara appeared, floating gently on a current of energy, her tentacles waving leisurely beneath her.

“It’s time for your fun, my subjects!”

Azshara raised her hands, and cries of panic echoed from both Horde and Alliance lines as every portal snapped shut, one even carving a poor soul cleanly in two. Around her, a shimmering field of energy appeared. Her Naga rushed forward, swarming over the crates of Azerite and tearing into the still disorganized forces. 

Jaina tried in vain to open a portal to Boralus. Her magic failed instantly, strange thorny tendrils of magic ripping apart her workings as soon as they formed. 

Beyond the Naga the water rushed away from the island at a frantic pace. Jaina followed it to see a growing cliffside of water just beginning to crest against the horizon. 

Liadrin and Turalyon struggled to keep discipline as everyone stared in horror at the coming wave. The Naga fought with a zealous fury, pressing both armies and forcing them further and further inland. Jaina felt panicked as she raced to the front, shielding and blasting as she went; how could she defend against _that?_

She had devised several variations of mass teleportation over the years – spells that were completely unique to her. She could move well over half of her army —but where? All the way to Boralus? She’d have nothing left for a return trip, so anyone she couldn’t take would be on their own. She could call the fleet home once she arrived…

…but it was all moot if quite possibly _the_ most powerful mage in history stood before her, blocking any attempt at travel.

“It seems Azshara fancies poetic murder today,” Sylvanas said, appearing just beyond her mage shield. “Of all the ways I imagined dying, being crushed by half the ocean was not one.”

Jaina glanced at the Banshee Queen and saw a gaze as haunted and fearful as her own, constantly darting away to take in the battlefield and their approaching doom before returning to her. 

Liadrin and Turalyon drifted closer as the battle collapsed into a general melee, their own desperation barely visible behind a wall of self-discipline. Alleria and Thalyssra came over, too – a meeting of the minds, eying each other warily across the thin arcane barrier. 

She glanced at her staff, at the large azure crystal slowly rotating within the golden tines at its tip. Power thrummed from the crystal; it pressed constantly against its confines, eager to escape, as it had since the campaign against the ex-Warchief Garrosh in Pandaria over three years ago.

Her gaze retuned to the armies and the rapidly retreating tide, as a wall of water grew and grew, swallowing the sky.

Even more Naga stood on the exposed sand. Some joined those fighting the armies, but most gathered around their Queen, prostrating themselves in worship.

The many eyes of Queen Azshara glowed eerily in contrast to her dark, moist skin. The many tentacles that made up her lower body swished back and forth leisurely as she floated above her devotees, a fang-filled grin on display for all to see. How happy she must be to deliver such a crippling blow to the armies that might otherwise oppose her.

So many champions… some friends for so long… and the fleet that even now she could sense running full sail with magical assistance in a futile attempt to save themselves, or – miracle of miracles – to ride the wave safely.

And…

And the Horde. The fury she normally felt was absent now. Killing when provoked was easy. Leaving helpless people to die, however…

She looked again to her staff. The island seemed so much larger as the water continued to recede, and more and more Naga appeared around their Queen.

With a sigh, she let her head fall, accepting of the inevitable. The harvested power of Lei Shen, the Thunder King — the power to face something as mighty as a Wild God. Her hidden ace, her final option to aid in the annihilation of her enemies… 

…instead, she would use it to help save them.

“Keep the Naga away from me,” she commanded, meeting the eyes of each leader in turn. “I will stop this.” 

Both paladins blinked. Thalyssra looked shocked but intrigued. 

“Jaina…?” Alleria asked, a cautious hope in her voice.

Sylvanas scoffed. “If you recall your history lessons, Proudmoore, Azshara herself was crushed beneath the waves when her magic failed; and as impressive as I will admit you to be, even _you_ are not Azshara.”

Jaina responded to no one, falling into her arcane senses. With a last resolving breath, she peeled away the bindings around the crystal on her staff while forming channels for the power within.

Brighter and brighter the crystal grew, tendrils of power visibly arcing out to form floating motes of energy around her. With a sharp crack, the crystal split down its center and huge orbs of pure, concentrated mana burst out, whipping around her in a frenzied rush. Small electric arcs passed between the globes, the staff, and her. 

She began an enormous cascading ice spell, feeding tremendous power into it as it formed. As the spell grew and expanded to encompass the camp, she committed another portion of mana to a mass summoning spell, pulling scores of elementals from the rushing ocean waters. 

The wave approached at an unthinkable pace, a mountain of water hundreds of feet tall and wider than the entire island. Her ships were just now climbing its base, doomed to failure as the wave began to crest. Her ice spell could never freeze such a massive amount of water fast enough to save them.

More. She needed _more._ But what had she left to give? Most of her defensive knowledge centred around protecting herself. What else could she possibly do to defend everyone else? The only thing left were the Tides chattering noisily and unintelligibly in the back of her mind– 

The Tides. _Yes._ She was no true speaker to the elements, but she’d had moments — with Thrall, talking to his spirits and elementals while they cavorted around her; of her first lessons in Stormsong Monastery, yearning to be a Tidesage before her mother sent her to Dalaran to study the arcane.

Jaina clutched at her anchor amulet with one hand. She gathered as much of the Thunder King’s power as she could and opened herself again to the Tides.

She sang a simple shanty, the first song she learned as a small child, and the first ever used by novice Tidesages to bless a ship leaving on a voyage. So woefully, pathetically inadequate for this situation, this miracle she desired.

But the song carried with it the power of a god to flood over these unfamiliar paths of power she long ago forsook. Where skill failed her, sheer might would prevail; and so, she sang, stumbling through lyrics she scarcely remembered, and the Tides listened. 

In her hand, her amulet began to glow.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Azshara stared at the human mage, numerous eyes wide in surprise and covetous wonder. What amazing power – clearly not her own, but still…! The forethought, the multitasking as she worked an enormous spell lattice all around them, and sustained dozens of simultaneous summons, _and_ also powered her trinket, which clearly held attachments to the little boats out at sea… _and_ at the same time she called to the ocean as though it were _alive_ like some primitive troll, and the ocean… answered her.

“Bring her to me,” she commanded. “I must have her. She is _mine._ ”

A fresh wave of Naga surged forwards, cutting their way toward the group and sending the leaders around the human mage into action. The elf mage overrode the shield splitting them, instead covering them all with a large dome tailored to allow the human’s workings to pass though – another one to collect! 

The boring light-wielders plodded forth and wielded their boring light boringly, facing her subjects with monotonous redundancy and she just couldn’t watch them anymore. The others…

Now _these_ elves were worth watching. One clearly fought using the void directly, and that was _interesting,_ and the other…

The other was an abomination with so complex and chaotic an animation matrix she could scarcely make out the individual components. This very impressive wind-up toy elf fought and screamed and killed her subjects so much more efficiently than the others that Azshara decided then and there she would open it up and examine every single strand of spellweave that made it work. 

As it was, she noticed the subtle bands of shadow tethering her to the three large, winged things that were likely Val’kyr – that connection seemed vital, somehow; good to know if she was forced to cut the puppet’s strings. 

As she enjoyed the spectacle, she kept one of her several eyes on the approaching waters, eager to see the human mage’s working.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sylvanas rarely felt emotions beyond rage, fatigue, and some sort of brooding moroseness that she associated with being content – more an absence of anger than any sort of happiness. But this…

Alleria spun back to back with her, each firing a rapid stream of arrows at the approaching Naga. Around and around they went, switching targets with each draw. What one sister injured, the other crippled. What one crippled, the other killed. 

They danced through the Naga, too fast and mobile for the snake-like warriors to corner them. 

“There!” Alleria cried. “A large formation!”

“Together!” Sylvanas replied, swinging around so that they both faced the group.

As one, they struck – Alleria with the destructive darkness of the void, and Sylvanas with her devastating scream. The Naga collapsed, broke and melted against the assault, the few survivors scattering and stalling the offensive push. 

Emboldened by the Windrunners’ ferocity, the armies surged forward to capitalize on the disoriented Naga.

“I missed this,” Alleria remarked as they ran towards another grouping, sniping targets along the way. “It feels like training in Eversong Forest centuries ago.”

“I… had forgotten this feeling,” Sylvanas admitted. “The patterns, the teamwork…”

“The trust?”

“…The trust.” 

Sylvanas’ eyes glowed brighter, heating her face enough for her to feel. It was all she had; they would no longer water or shed tears. 

“For now,” Alleria said, leaning closer, “for this battle, trust that I will defend you.”

“And I, you.” 

For now. For as long as this lasted. Until the battle ended, and she was once again the reviled, evil sister that Alleria would say she should have killed. The abandoned one, left to scrape together a kingdom amongst the dead.

For now; but not forever. She was no longer worth ‘forever.’ Her eyes burned like twin suns, the crimson heat radiating out as she carved through the Naga, matching Alleria kill for kill. 

And everyone around her would mistake that heat for rage.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Captain Robards fought with the wheel of his ship, struggling to keep the boat from broaching to as the water tilted further and further upwards. The climb was too steep and long for a head-on run. He climbed at angle and prayed to the Tidemother that they weren’t too close to the shore. A terrible crest already foamed at the peak. Even should he manage the impossible climb to reach it, the rolling surf was at least half as large as his ship and could easily be his end. Still, he would give his every effort until he was over the wave – or under it.

Behind him, the Tidesage clung to the rail, weeping and praying. Then–

Then she gasped and began to sing. A simple song, and one he knew well. 

The pall over his heart lifted as he began to sing. A thrill coursed through him, making him laugh through a verse. Maybe, just maybe, the Tidemother answered his prayer. One by one, his crew picked up the song.

Mishan Waycrest heard the song that stirred in the air from Robard’s ship. It drifted along water almost alive, sweeping her and her crew along with it on its way to the other ships; and with a good idea of who might accomplish such things, she looked behind her to the now not-so-distant shore.

She saw the Naga – _Naga!!_ – gathered, pressing forward to attack. She saw Alliance and Horde armies fighting to repel them; and behind them…

Behind them shone the blinding glow of the Lord Admiral’s Call.

Then the mists fell. Thunder. Darkness. The ship dropped for a timeless second and crashed hard against level water. The roar of the surf faded. And as the wall of mist parted…

Sunlight. Calm waters. Nearly evening – hours different than moments ago. Before her, the towering harbor gates of Boralus. 

Home.

“Jaina,” she whispered. Around her the crew still sang, laughter and tearful cries of joy erupting as more and more of them realized where they were.

Mishan bowed her head, whispering a prayer to the Tides for her friend and soon-to-be sister.

\---== {(0)} ==---

The glow of Jaina’s amulet faded as the ships vanished. The giant wave responded to her call and slowed from a thunderous charge to a slow, plodding walk. Her ice spells extended out beyond the now-grounded Stormwind ships that had blockaded the bay. Water elementals rushed to space themselves across the camp and out into the exposed bay.

As the wave reached the spell’s framework it hardened into thick, glacier-like ice. The water easily stepped over the small mound of ice and more water froze; and more; and more. Again, and again the wave crested over the ice; again, and again it froze solid as stone. 

The ice quickly formed the beginnings of a dome. When it reached the first elementals, they stretched up to meet the ice and froze themselves, becoming thick pillars to help support the structure. As the dome reached land it was easily a hundred feet tall with several tons of ice forming every second. 

The Naga attacked relentlessly, but Thalyssra fended them off with shields and arcane storms with spatial warps that sliced through her assailants like a dozen expert swordsmen. The paladins were immovable pillars of light, shrugging off all assaults. The Windrunner sisters killed with a ruthless efficiency that shamed the armies and champions fighting around them.

And behind the Naga Azshara watched happily, her eyes dancing from one person to the next; one set of hands clasped while the other clapped in appreciation. The large, central eye on her forehead remained fixed on Jaina, however. 

Sweat coated Jaina’s entire face, dripping endlessly from her nose and chin. The spell construct was simple but so massive in scale she could barely channel power fast enough to feed it. 

As the ice above grew thicker and the dome sloped downward. Elemental after elemental twisted and grew into frozen pillars to support the terrible weight of the waters above. As the wave reached the edge of the camp, and the dome sealed shut. The ice above dimmed from a whitish-blue to a dusky midnight and finally to pitch black. Torches and light spells flared to life as the armies reacted.

From all around them the ice groaned and cracked as the flood passed over, thickening as water froze to its surface. The pillars shuddered; one cracked and reformed before the roof could collapse. 

And then…

Nothing. Jaina ceased her song, pulling back the remainder of the Thunder King’s power. The ice above held, thick as a mountain glacier now and impossible for the waters to crush. 

One by one, war cries and shouts of victory erupted as the chaotic mess of dwarves, orcs, elves, humans, goblins, gnomes, Tauren, trolls and a host of undead pressed against the now confused Naga, cutting them down and forcing them back. Lines blurred and mixed as the armies followed their commanders’ example, the threat of a greater foe drove lifelong enemies to defend each other. 

There in the shadows, lit by flickering motes of light, Jaina saw her dream. The dream of Theramore, of her friendship with Thrall. Tears gathered in her eyes as chaotic emotions warred for her heart.

What could have been. What might be. How many more would die before this temporary truce became a reality.

She saw Sylvanas’ calculating gaze upon her, then slightly to her right. She followed that gaze to stare forlornly at her ruined staff. Dust and tiny shards orbited chaotically amongst the warped, semi-molten tines; a large split now ran down its length, the wood only held together by its metal bracing.

They were saved… but at a cost: A powerful advantage Jaina would likely never possess again, whose power was now mostly spent, and would soon dissipate if she used the remainder or not.

But it had a use: She had saved everyone; now she had to get them out.

Taking hold of the power again, she spun twin workings, one to either side of her. With grunt, she channeled enough mana to overpower Azshara’s counterspell.

Two enormous portals tore open – one to Orgrimmar and one to Stormwind.

“Call the retreat!” Jaina shouted as loudly as she could. “Hurry! We cannot stay here!”

An arcing plasma-like band of energy assaulted Thalyssra’s shield, shrieking back and forth across the barrier. Jaina groaned as she saw the attack and Azshara’s furious gaze; she had obviously broken the rules with her portals, and now the game was over.

With effort, she split a third conduit of power and spun it into her own beam of power, arcing out just as the First Arcanist’s shield shattered. The rivers of energy slammed together, creating a huge globe of warring energies where they met. Power discharged chaotically from the orb, scarring the ground and wounding anyone who wandered too close. 

The Horde responded faster than the Alliance. Liadrin apparently had no issues with tactical withdrawal; and Sylvanas was Warchief besides. Once she called for retreat, her voice unnaturally loud, the Horde obeyed. Turalyon was reluctant to abandon the fight, arguing with Alleria who attempted to fulfill Jaina’s request.

Several champions of the Alliance attempted to get the retreat moving, charging the remaining enemies to give others time to flee. Others tried to fight their way to Azshara, hoping to end her threat; several did, if fact, win their way to stand directly in front of the Queen of the Naga.

She obliterated them with a casual wave of a hand, her attack on Jaina never wavering.

Then she sent waves of destruction across the battlefield, killing and injuring dozens with each pulse. Those flung too far from their allies were ripped to shreds by the Naga, screaming their Queen’s name as they fought.

The Alliance moved somewhat faster after that. Turalyon and Liadrin both held shields of light around their portals, covering those crossing through from Azshara’s wrath.

Azshara slithered forward, snakelike in her movements. She roughly shoved her minions aside as she passed and killed any Horde or Alliance warrior stupid enough to be in her way. The added pressure on the joined streams of power forced Jaina to step back.

She saw the shadowy form of Sylvanas ghost towards her and solidify. “Can you win?” she asked, eyeing the contest of power between them.

Jaina shook her head. “No. I’ll run dry soon, and then the portals will close. It’s probably exactly what she wants.”

“Can anything else be done, rather than a direct assault?”

“I…” What else was there to do? Capture her? Impossible. Contain her? In what? Eject her from the area? Perhaps, but she could return immediately. Ward against that? No, there was no time to set up anything powerful enough to do so. Existing wards? Where? Dalaran’s Violet Hold? Likely too weak. Coldarra? The blue dragons would be furious. Kalec might understand the desperation… but maybe…

Jaina reached out with a small tendril of magic, testing her newest theory – a theory that depended on an old enemy’s arrogance and ignorance. The distraction nearly ended her as her beam faltered and the ball of energy raced towards her. She stumbled back as she strained to halt it.

Strong hands braced her from behind, keeping her from falling over. 

“Focus, Proudmoore,” the Warchief warned. “If you lose, we all die.”

Embarrassed, she struggled to work the beams back toward even. Then a smile crossed her face as her questing magic returned to her with an answer. 

“I have a plan, but I need time, and can’t keep wasting energy on this — this _pissing contest._ Can you get her off me?”

Sylvanas unslung her bow and stretched her shoulders with a sickening crack. “Work quickly,” she said as she hurried toward her Forsaken lines, beckoning Thalyssra to follow.

Jaina carefully began the workings of a third portal, burying the construct deep in the ground near the leylines to conceal it. Mindful of her beam’s integrity, Jaina slowly and carefully set about crafting modifications to the portal, praying for the Banshee Queen’s intervention as the mana orbs around her grew smaller with each passing heartbeat.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“My Queen!” Nathanos strode over to Sylvanas, his hands restored by the Val’kyr floating behind them. “The retreat proceeds steadily—”

“We must defend Proudmoore,” she cut across. “She has a plan to remove Azshara but cannot while she is caught in that duel.”

Nathanos opened his mouth, closed it, and furrowed his brow. Finally, he nodded. “What are your orders?”

“Thalyssra?” The First Arcanist bowed slightly. “Get Nathanos over to the Azerite pile. Nathanos, simple explosives. Show her what spells you need. Work _fast._ ” Sylvanas gestured to herself. “When Alleria and I begin our assault, attack at her flank. Target her arms. The goal is to stop that energy beam.”

“Yes, my Queen!” 

“Of course, Warchief!” 

Nathanos stepped towards Thalyssra, and the two vanished.

Falling into her banshee’s form, Sylvanas flew across the field to Alleria. To her sister’s credit, she only jumped a little bit.

“Alleria, forget the Naga. we must get Azshara off Proudmoore, or we will perish. Together!”

“Together, then!”

As one, the sisters charged forward. They fired arrows at the Naga Queen’s flank, but a shield shimmered into being, stopping them cold. Sylvanas tried an explosive arrow, but the shield still held.

Alleria sent a flood of living shadow at Azshara, who raised two of her hands in response: One formed a new shield to catch the new, stronger attack; the other traced a glowing rune that hung in the air. From that rune, a torrent of arcane bolts flew, each one tracking Alleria whenever she moved. Faced with an endless barrage, Alleria broke away, sprinting, jumping, and even disappearing into the void to evade them.

Sylvanas unleashed her scream, causing Azshara to flinch away; the beam wavered slightly, and Proudmoore made headway, forcing the volatile sphere towards her enemy. But that was not the goal, and the monster before her showed no other reaction to her.

A powerful bolt of energy slammed into Azshara’s shield from behind as Thalyssra appeared. Unlike before, the Naga Queen gave the First Arcanist some of her attention, trading spells and reinforcing defences. 

A powerful detonation sent Azshara to the ground. Nathanos tossed another grenade, and the Naga teleported a short distance away and sent a wave of power towards the undead ranger, forcing him to dodge away. Seeing an opportunity, he lobbed a third grenade high, where it hit the glowing rune, erasing it in the explosion.

Alleria immediately resumed her assault, hammering down on Azshara’s defences with the void, while Thalyssra summoned falling meteors front the sky to fall upon her foe. Sylvanas added her own explosive arrows to the mix, circling for an angle where she could scream without catching an ally in its wake.

Azshara teleported, shielded, tore rock and dirt from the ground to block, and even once hid behind her own Naga to let them absorb the blows. Throughout it all, she maintained enough offence against Proudmoore that the Archmage still maintained her beam, with a growing look of concern on her pale, sweaty face.

\---== {(0)} ==---

What a fun challenge this was turning out to be! Azshara felt the momentary urge to wipe her brow. If she were still Kal’dorei she would be sweating profusely! Who could guess at these simpletons’ ingenuity?

Still, this was growing tiresome. Taking a page from the human mage, she quickly summoned a handful of water elementals. The instant they formed, they rushed her attackers, crashing into them and freezing solid. The annoying void user escaped, but the boring toy human and elf mage were trapped. 

Excellent. She re-drew her attack rune and set the annoying voidspawn back to her pathetic running and jumping.

Now, where did the toy elf go…? No matter, she was free from assault, and the human mage seemed very close to depleted. Perhaps it was time to end things. She reappeared directly in front of the mage, grabbing the energy ball with all four hands and shoving it down onto the human.

With a pained cry, the human raised her demolished staff to block the flow, powerful arcs of energy flying everywhere. 

She stared down at this beautiful being struggling below her. This was worth everything.

“Jaina Proudmoore,” she crooned. “You will serve me from this day forward, and you will know riches, pleasure and happiness beyond your wildest imagination.”

“Never,” the human growled, because what else would she have said?

“I implied no choice, my lovely. Fret not; by tomorrow at the latest, you will shower me with your thanks and affection.”

A shimmer behind the mage drew Azshara’s attention. The toy elf had returned, and she’d brought her winged friends with her. 

“Proudmoore!” the elf called, “Push now, as hard as you can!” Oh, yes, please do. Finish with that damnable energy so she could trap at least half of those fleeing armies.

The elf flew in her strange, shadowy form to stand nearly underneath the power globe. Ah, would she attack again? Perhaps—

She felt the surge; saw the tendrils of shadow that connected the elf to the Val’kyr widen until they were thick as trees. 

The scream struck with titanic force. It tore her shields to shreds. It gouged through her flesh. It boiled her blood. It popped one of her eyes. It filled her mind with blinding torment. Her hold on the pulsing orb faltered, and the human surged forward.

The energy burst upon her, obliterating her arms and searing her front. She bounced backwards along the ground, carried by momentum and the force of that damned elf’s cry.

No. How dare they think they could hurt her. Her?! This waste of time ended _NOW._

Quickly, she vanished and emerged behind the three Val’kyr. With a wave of her already-healing arm, she tore each one in half at the waist. With another, she ripped their wings from their bodies. The elf jerked and dropped to the ground as if hit by lightning. 

The human mage kept an eye on her, caught up in a new spell. Casually, Azshara sent a lash of subtle power to strike at the toy elf, shattering a large swath of her spellweave. 

“See how you dance with broken strings, puppet,” she growled. Turning to the mage, she favoured her with a smile. “Your friends are defeated, and your armies running away. Will you come with me, now? Or do you harbor some illusion of actually winning?”

And the human mage answered her with a smile of her own. “No.”

From beneath her, something stirred. A spell – the human mage hid a spell near the leyline! She laughed at the sheer genius as she pulled up a shield—

At her feet, a portal opened flush with the ground. It rose as she fell, swallowing her like some giant beast before closing above her.

With a painful crash, she landed amidst ice and chilling cold. Foolish girl. She reached out to find the mage’s signature, and then—

—nothing. 

She tried again, and again, but her teleportation failed, blocked by wards of fantastic power. Where _was_ she?

Her eyes found a rough staircase of ice beside her, and she followed it up, and up, to see the Frozen Throne above her, and the cruel, unforgiving gaze of the Lich King.

All around her, uncountable undead roused and moved toward her at their King’s command.

“Oh, that girl is a complete and utter _bitch._ ”

\---== {(0)} ==---

Jaina stood, waiting as her breath slowed and her heart returned to a normal rate. Her portals required a fraction of the mana they did just a moment ago, and Azshara had not simply returned. That meant…

“It worked,” she whispered. “It worked!” She laughed, joy coursing through her. 

Mages from the Alliance and Horde once again opened their own portals, and she allowed hers to close. The armies refocused from retreat to finishing off the remaining Naga, who were now somewhat less zealous after their Queen’s defeat. Jaina called for several elementals to split the cargo, carrying crates of Azerite to both the Alliance and Horde portals in the hopes of preventing a return to hostility.

Both Liadrin and Turalyon seemed pleased with the effort, and the armies made no effort to do anything beyond slaying the remaining enemies and leaving with their spoils. 

Thalyssra approached with Liadrin. “Thank you greatly for your efforts today, Lady Proudmoore. It was an unexpected pleasure to both spar with you as well as cooperate.”

“I agree,” Jaina said with a smile. “I hope one day we might meet somewhere like Dalaran.”

“Yes! I desperately wish to know what you did to remove Azshara! It was ingenious!”

“Yes, tell us,” Sylvanas said as she approached. Nathanos and Alleria supported her on either side; both looked troubled even though the Banshee Queen herself affected her normal aloof attitude.

“I sent her somewhere with wards impossible to simply push through. It will take her quite some time to figure out how to leave. She might even have to walk.”

“But you know the wards?” asked Turalyon as he walked over. He cast a dark look at Alleria and Sylvanas.

“Of course. I had to learn them quite thoroughly when we assaulted Icecrown to fight Arthas. It isn’t my fault Bolvar forgot to change the locks.”

They all gaped at her. Liadrin recovered first. “You mean to say that Azshara…”

“Is currently keeping company with the Lich King. One twisted by an Old God, the other a pawn of the Legion. They’ll _hate_ each other.”

Sylvanas cackled, a sharp barking laugh that startled the others. To Jaina, it sounded an awful lot like victory. That’s what it felt like to her, too.

“I won’t forget this,” Liadrin said as she touched Jaina’s shoulder. “We owe you a debt, Lady Proudmoore. I hope this bodes well for our future interactions as well.”

“As do I.” 

Thalyssra said her farewells and left with Liadrin for the portals. Turalyon quickly begged off as well, unwilling to spend more time in the presence of the Warchief.

“Your husband is such a charming fellow,” Sylvanas said as the paladin stalked off. 

Alleria scoffed. “Do not waste your time speaking of him. Tell me – why can you not walk, sister? You seem intact enough.”

“The loss of the Val’kyr must have affected you,” Nathanos offered. “Surely you will recover in time. I will summon Brynja when we reach Orgrimmar.” The Ranger Lord looked at Jaina for a moment. “I thank you for saving us, Lady Proudmoore. Clearly, my Queen was correct to back you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jaina said, not terribly willing to trade more words than strictly necessary.

“Let us go, then—” Sylvanas stopped dead in her sentence, her eyes going dull and lifeless. 

“Sylvanas!” Alleria cried as the Warchief crumpled out from between them, hitting the ground so heavily she nearly bounced. Nathanos quickly had her turned up and cradled in his arms. For a moment, there was only the stillness of death. And then, her eyes flickered to life again.

“I cannot… control… my body,” Sylvanas managed, working her unwilling jaw slowly through the words. “She… has done … something… to me.” Silence reigned as her crimson eyes dimmed again, before coming back fainter. “I’m… dying. I’m…”

Her eyes went dark. The remainder of her breath seeped out in a rattling sigh. 

“Sister!” Alleria screamed, an enormous tear dripping down her face. “You cannot fight beside me again and then leave me like this! You cannot perish!”

“My Queen,” Nathanos whispered as his arms tightened around Sylvanas’ body. “My Lady, my – Sylvanas, please. I cannot—”

Thin, wispy trails of shadow seeped from Sylvanas’ mouth, ears and eyes. Slowly they coalesced into a faint image of the Banshee Queen; but even the image seemed frail.

“I am undone,” she whispered. “I cannot hold my body. It cannot end like this. Not like this…”

A thrill of panic struck Jaina. “Alleria, the Tides are – they’re something. It’s strange, too quiet to hear. Is it—?”

“The void. It’s … happy. It’s … Sylvanas, we must secure you!”

“Of course, it comes!” the weakened banshee laughed darkly. “Of course, I am condemned as I always was, no matter what I’ve done to prevent it. Did you know?” she turned to address Jaina. “Did you know that when Arthas Menethil was finally dead, I ended my life, only to find myself in the void? To share his fate?”

“Sylvanas…”

“And now my Val’kyr are dead, my lifeline gone, my very being shattered, and it was all to save his one-time lover! How ironic Proudmoore, that I began this day trying to kill you, only to die saving you.”

“Hold on!” Jaina cried. “Let me try to save you! Let me see what she broke!”

“You should rejoice instead; the Banshee Queen is dead!”

“My Queen, let her try!” Nathanos begged. “Do not give in to this!”

“Hurry!” Alleria urged. “Please try, Jaina!”

Jaina struggled to see anything but chaos – she was no necromancer, and the weave was too tightly woven for a novice to even move, let alone actually repair. Perhaps the Tides were the answer again, to repair holistically what she could not dissect—

“Jaina!” 

“I’m trying! Hold on!”

“No! You will not take her!” Alleria lunged forward, struggling against shadows reaching for Sylvanas. Nathanos tried as well but pulled back a hand half-eaten by the living shadows. He clutched to the body in his lap, shivering.

Jaina pulled at the small motes of power left from the Thunder King’s energy. Nearly all of it was spent, but perhaps, combined with her own mana, there was enough…

“I can feel…” Sylvanas’ voice drifted off as her eyes closed. “Proudmoore, it’s working. What you’re doing is working!”

Jaina tried to offer a smile as she fought to find the path for her energy. A healing of energy washed across Sylvanas in slow, gentle waves, mending the ruptures in Sylvanas’ weave of undead magic slowly but surely. 

“Sylvanas…” A dark whisper echoed from the darkness as a split in the air formed. The creature that began to emerge seemed very much like a Val’kyr, but… different. Twisted by years in the void.

“Annhylde?” Sylvanas drifted towards the being, transfixed.

“NO!” Alleria cried, placing herself between them. She embraced the void completely, an elf of shadows that fought shadows. “Do not listen, Sylvanas! Everything it whispers is a lie!”

“Come… come to me, Sylvanas,” the voice said. “Our bargain is still in force… I will restore you to your glory…”

“It wants you dead!” Alleria pleaded. “The void cries out for it! Please, Sylvanas! Listen to me!”

Jaina felt the last stitches of Sylvanas’ spellweave stitch together, just as the shadow creature lashed out, grabbing Sylvanas with long tentacle-like arms. 

“No!” She cried, whatever spell she’d fallen into snapping. “No! You can’t have me! I fought too hard to die like this!”

“You belong to us…” 

“Sylvanas, you’re healed!” Jaina called. “If you repossess your body, it should leave! Nathanos, get her body over there!”

The ranger hauled the corpse over, and Sylvanas reached out and around the void creature, wisps entering back into her body…

The void creature jerked hard, and Sylvanas came pouring back out, still caught in its grasp.

Alleria pummeled at the creature, which finally released Sylvanas to focus on the other Windrunner. 

“The body is broken as I was,” Sylvanas said. “There’s something wrong; it’s like trying to grasp air.”

“Use mine!” Nathanos offered. “Take me, my Queen!”

Again, Sylvanas tried, only to be rebuffed. “I … You are too strong now; protected by the Val’kyr. I cannot.”

“Flee, then!” Alleria called. “I can hold this beast!”

“…hunt you…” it whispered, lifting Alleria and slamming her hard to the ground.

Jaina felt pulled in different directions. She’d done everything she could. The Thunder King’s power was now completely spent, as well as a great deal of her own reserves. There were no flashy spells to cast or esoteric loopholes to exploit. 

The void only came for Sylvanas when she was disembodied; clearly part of her being involved a corporeal form. She could not possess Nathanos, or her own form. Possessing Alleria, if her sister were to offer, would likely be the same as running into the arms of the void creature itself.

No, there was only one option. 

Again, she met the gaze of the Warchief – the terrified gaze of a broken woman facing her own death, wishing only to live.

Sylvanas’ mouth opened, but no sound came out. Slowly, it closed again, and she looked toward the floor, unwilling to ask.

Jaina had seen her dream today. The spark of hope lit within her would not snuff out – not now, not when she could help, not when Sylvanas’ death would undo any benefit of today’s cooperation – and not when she clearly owed Sylvanas her life.

“Come to me,” she said softly. “Sylvanas, come to me.”

The banshee stared at her in shock for just a moment – then a fierce, determined look overcame her and she rushed forward. Jaina felt the shadows surround her…

“Proudmoore, I’m not a _demon,_ I can’t even begin to get inside!”

Relief washed – no. No, she would do this. She would not let Sylvanas die.

“Try again,” Jaina said, falling into herself. She felt the shadows around her gather, and she plunged deeper and deeper. 

With a rough tearing noise, a great darkness washed across her, flooding her body.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Alleria dropped to the ground as the void creature vanished, a litany of curses, oaths and threats echoing around in the whispers around her.

To one side, Nathanos still clutched the empty body of her sister. And behind her – 

“JAINA!” Alleria rushed over to the mage as she jerked and spasmed on the ground, the last traces of dark shadows sinking into her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now... *now* the fun stuff begins!


	4. In Your Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. _Finally,_ I get to start this in earnest.
> 
> Again I must give my profound thanks to JE_Talveran for navigating me around countless pitfalls.
> 
> _Small Edit:_ Someone pointed out a rather important name correction. I have done so! ;)

Alleria dropped to her knees, pulling Jaina up onto her lap. She carefully held down the mage’s arms as she spasmed uncontrollably. A dread panic surged in her chest. She was overjoyed at the prospect of her sister’s survival… But if the Lord Admiral died… If Sylvanas snuffed out Jaina Proudmoore, especially after she had just saved both the Alliance and the Horde forces, the fallout would be unthinkable.

_Take her to the priestess. Purge her. Or kill her now. Snap her neck. Snuff out the abomination. Murder her now, or she will murder us all…_

With effort, Alleria ignored the whispers dancing in the shadows. She had no doubt that one day the void would claim her sister – just as one day it would claim her.

But that would not be today.

As the spasms calmed, she watched Jaina’s face, dreading the moment that those eyes would open, would they be blue, or…?

With a deep breath, Jaina’s eyes fluttered open, their natural colour swallowed in a glimmering crimson glow.

“Oh, Jaina…” she whispered. “Sister, what have you done?”

“Very little,” came the reply. The difference startled her, to hear the reverberation of a banshee’s powerful voice in Jaina’s deep, sultry tone rather than Sylvanas’ lighter, more familiar one. The accent, however, was entirely her sister’s.

“My Queen,” Nathanos called quietly as he crawled over, gently bringing Sylvanas’ vacant body with him. “Are you—?”

“I am here because Proudmoore allows it,” Sylvanas continued. “Even now, she struggles to contain herself, so I might remain. Her magics feel… odd.”

“Others approach!” Nathanos warned quietly, gesturing to the paladins rushing back toward them, soldiers in their wake. “How will we explain this?”

“I can handle my husband,” Alleria said assertively. Whether that proved true or not… “Figure out what to tell Liadrin.”

“Alleria…” warned Sylvanas, “They will sense—”

“Warchief, be quiet,” came the disembodied voice of Jaina Proudmoore. “I will speak for myself. ‘You’ are over there, ‘unconscious.’ Alleria, Blightcaller, play along.”

The crimson eyes vanished as Jaina’s face took on a more lively and hale appearance. Alleria shifted Jaina to be more upright just as Turalyon reached them.

“Light preserve us, what happened?! I left just moments ago!”

Liadrin arrived not a heartbeat later, her gaze implying a similar sentiment.

“Azshara left us a parting gift,” Jaina replied, her voice suddenly tired and haggard. “Some sort of void creature that the Warchief and Alleria fought off. I’m spent, so I wasn’t much help. The Warchief took a beating, though. I think we both need healers — Alleria, is Miss Windwhisper still around? She was quite helpful to me before…”

“Yes,” Alleria said, nodding as she caught on. “Yes, let’s find her.”

“I will take my Queen back to Orgrimmar.” Nathanos announced as he rose, cradling Sylvanas’ form in his arms. “You–” he pointed at a Dark Ranger, “—send word through to the Val’kyr, Brynja. We require her services.” He marched off with authority, parting the Horde contingent like water. 

Liadrin turned back to Alleria. “I have not forgotten my long years as a priestess,” she said. “I can try to heal you, if you require it…”

Alleria appreciated the offer from her old friend, though she could feel her husband bristling behind her. Still, a servant of the Light would undoubtedly sense the possession.

“Thank you, Matriarch Liadrin,” Jaina said, turning her head to face the paladin – though Alleria felt no turning in her arms. “I would like to go with Alleria now. The Warchief put me though my paces earlier, and I’d like to erase the aches and pains of this battle completely. I’m sure that would take even an experienced healer an hour or two…”

“Of course,” Liadrin replied, turning to leave. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Lady Proudmoore.” Barking at her troops, she quickly had everyone moving back to the portals. 

“You’re certain you’re alright?” Turalyon asked Jaina as he watched the Horde move off. 

“I’ll be fine. If you’ll oversee the departure, Turalyon, I’ll borrow your wife and find that priestess.”

“Very well.” Turalyon smiled down at her. “You were very impressive today; thank you for everything, Jaina. You truly are the embodiment of the title ‘Lord Admiral.’” 

As the paladin and his entourage departed, the illusion faded, and Alleria once again found herself gazing into the crimson eyes of her sister.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Nathanos moved as quickly as he could. Speed was of the essence; not only for his Queen’s body, but to avoid awkward questions. Sylvanas was in the hands of Proudmoore, a notion that grated on every nerve still capable of feeling. Not the least of his concerns was the fact that further communication rested in the hands of the mage. The Dark Lady could supply her with any one of their drop points for coded intelligence, so he knew information would come… unless they were compromised, or Proudmoore failed to save…

“No,” he growled to himself. Wallowing would do nothing but show his concerns to those around him. His confidence spoke to others of the Warchief’s recuperation. If he showed any weakness, there would be whispers – more than there might otherwise be – that Sylvanas Windrunner had fallen.

That would be disastrous.

He shouted and snapped at everyone until he found himself inside Grommash Hold, carefully opening the door to his Lady’s quarters. He lay the Warchief gently down on her bed and resigned himself to waiting. Soon, the Val’kyr Brynja would be here, and this mess could be dealt with.

Hopefully. 

Because without the Banshee Queen, the Forsaken would fall apart – and the Horde soon after.

“Blightcaller,” came Brynja’s voice as the winged woman floated in. “What has happened?”

“Your sisters are dead,” he replied, “killed by Azshara herself. The Dark Lady resides in the body of another temporarily. Her body needs some sort of repair.” 

“I see.”

A moment passed as Brynja examined the Warchief’s body. Then a minute. Then two.

“Well?” Nathanos snapped, his patience at an end.

“It is complicated.”

“ _Thank you_ for that detailed answer,” he groused. “Have you nothing more to say on it?”

The woman turned and gave him a flat look. “You know nothing of necromancy. What purpose would it serve to go into detail?”

He forced himself to take a breath. In another life, this would have calmed him; the memory would have to suffice. “Can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

“How long will it take?”

“Alone? Days.”

“Alone,” Nathanos confirmed. “No one must know what occurred.”

“Then we shall say a week. Perhaps sooner, but plan for a week. Now leave me to work.”

With a curt nod, Nathanos left the Val’kyr and proceeded to his own quarters down the hall. A week… this would go very, very poorly. He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, thoughts spinning with how to control the fallout.

A week without the Warchief would be impossible to cover alone. He would need something more than just a weak story of recovery. He needed Sylvanas here. He needed...

He needed her.

“Damn it all,” he whispered, dropping his head into his hands as memories of better times haunted him. “Damn you, Sylvanas, and damn me, too. I’m so tired…”

He sat silently, one ear on the door for messengers, the other in the past, hearing the voice of the woman he once loved when it was warm with life.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Alleria walked silently ahead of her, and Sylvanas appreciated the momentary lapse in conversation. The changes wrought by a living body… living.

She was alive. 

The thunder of her own breath; the barely perceptible sound of blood rushing though her body. The rhythmic thumping of her heart. The chill of the air as it ghosted across her exposed skin. The taste of the tiny crumbs of some pastry stuck between her teeth… 

She was alive. Here, now, in this human body, she was _alive._

She was also a prisoner. The body she inhabited belonged to a mage powerful enough to evict her with a passing thought – and eviction meant the void. Whatever Proudmoore had planned was better than falling into the abyss for eternity… but still. 

She couldn’t deny the faint spark of hope within her, but with every passing moment, she became more and more aware of her powerlessness, and it chafed against her sanity.

She needed more than this. She needed control.

Alleria glanced back at her constantly, her sister’s face cycling through emotions. Sylvanas shared the sentiment, but now was not the time to indulge such things – perhaps never. Before she could speak, though, she watched as tendrils of magic she’d never been able to see before reached out from her body in front of her, forming a floating shimmering pattern.

“Can you see the distortion?” asked Proudmoore, her voice coming from beside her. “I need you to reach into there and grab the rod – it should be the first thing you come across.”

Sylvanas raised her hand, hesitating only as it disappeared. As Proudmoore stated, the rod was right there to find, and she pulled out brass wand roughly two feet in length with a large red crystal orb at its tip. Rough, hasty etching spelled out “Firestarter” as well as a crude gesture just above the wrapped grip. Sylvanas could easily imagine this in the hands of a little girl just beginning her studies.

A sigh echoed around her as the magic around her body now returned to her, flowing instead through the wand. A strain she hadn’t even noticed lessened considerably.

“That helps tremendously,” the mage said. “Alleria, we need to move a bit faster. I’m very drained right now, and I’m losing mana by the second. I need to reach my workshop and replenish myself, then I need to redo these ad-hoc weavings into something more durable and less lossy.”

“Proudmoore,” Sylvanas asked as her sister helped her stand. “I know nothing of your home nor your patterns. How will anyone believe I am you?”

“Lean on my staff – it should still have enough strength in the wood to support my weight. Keep hold of the wand, though – I need that to channel through. Just act tired. Stay silent, and I’ll disguise your face and eyes again and speak for you. If someone tries shake your hand or hug you, accept it.”

“Do you have any potions remaining, Jaina?” asked Alleria as she pulled the mage’s arm over her shoulders. “If not, I have a pair.”

“I should… Sylvanas?” The shimmer reappeared, and Sylvanas dutifully stuck her hand in – as she suspected, the potion was right in front, ready to be grabbed. 

“That is ridiculously convenient,” she muttered as she popped the lid off and downed the contents.

“I aim to please,” came the disembodied response. “Once we get inside and I get my hands on my spare staff, you can consider yourself ‘safe.’ Alleria, I could use the healing, if only to prevent scarring, and Miss Windwhisper has seen the damage already. Is she trustworthy?”

“She is – even for this. I’ll go for her once we’re through the portal.”

Silence fell again between them as they walked towards the portals, trailing far behind the paladin. Alleria trotted ahead to catch up to her husband for a few moments, and the silence plucked at her fears. 

Her thoughts grew ever darker as she pondered the possible outcomes. She’d possessed Proudmoore out of desperation; she hadn’t been thinking at all. Now she was stuck in the body of an archmage – who ever-so-conveniently locked herself _and her magic_ away – with no chance of escape that didn’t immediately damn her to the void.

Even if Proudmoore hadn’t done so, what would it have mattered? She was no mage; she’d have no use for the power. Most likely she’d cause herself further harm. Meanwhile, while she’d secured - _ha_ , secured, as if she could – control of Proudmoore’s physical actions, the damned mage could just speak through her illusions anyways!

There was no leverage. No control. No safety. Just a long walk into her enemy’s home where her enemy could gain even more power and surround herself with friends while Sylvanas would be alone and trapped and restricted and—

“Sylvanas, what’s going on?” Jaina asked, her voice hovering somewhere to the side. “I can feel my heart going a mile a minute. Is something w—?

“What do you want from me, Proudmoore?”

“What do you mean?” A moment, and then: “We let your Val’kyr repair your body, and off you go. That should hopefully take only a day or two…? How long will it take, actually?”

“And I’m to believe that you’ll simply let me go free?”

“What?” Proudmoore’s bafflement sounded completely sincere, which sparked her anger.

“Come on, Proudmoore, don’t play coy with me. You have me by the short hairs, completely helpless. You have everything to gain by simply taking me to the boy king. You could simply expel me this instant, let me die, and no one would be the wiser.”

“That would be an enormous a waste of my time and effort thus far,” Proudmoore balked. “I didn’t offer you room in my person just to renege on it moments later.”

“What does this gain you?” Sylvanas insisted. There _had_ to be a reason behind this.

“Were we not just fighting side-by-side moments ago?”

“Irrelevant. Azshara is gone – marvellous plan, by the way – and with it, any reason for continued cooperation.”

“Your sister—”

“Do not even _pretend_ to understand my relationship with my sisters,” Sylvanas growled, incensed. “Who are you to bring them up?”

“Alleria I’ve only recently met,” Proudmoore allowed, “but Vereesa is my best friend.”

“Really. The woman who got her husband killed in Theramore?” Sylvanas scoffed. “Feed me another line, mage.” 

“This is funny,” Proudmoore laughed, a disembodied chuckle in the air. “You obviously don’t know Vereesa all that well, then. On whose shoulder do you think she cried when she ran from your offer to join you? To whom do you think she went when the three of you met up and couldn’t resolve your differences? I can tell you more about the adventures of your younger years than you think, Windrunner.”

Sylvanas felt her cheeks flush in irritation and embarrassment – even more so now that they _could_. Proudmoore knowing intimate details of her life felt awkward and violating. Her sense of helplessness grew worse by the second. 

“There is still no gain,” Sylvanas insisted. “My sisters’ favor is no reason to risk your health and lie to Alliance leadership. What do you want, Proudmoore? No one would give anything, let alone this much of themselves, for free.”

“There’s also the matter of you having saved me—”

“That merely makes us even,” Sylvanas cut across. “Let us not forget that had you not done whatever it was you did, we would all be dead.”

“You’re impossible, you know that?” the mage sighed, exasperated.

“I’m realistic. I know that I would have let you die without batting an eye.”

“I’m well aware.” Despite the lack of body, Sylvanas could hear the eye roll in the mage’s voice.

“Then. Why. Am. I. Still. Here?” She winced as her desperation bled though. Absently she reached up to wipe the sweat from her brow, barely noticing the action until she’d done it.

“How many reasons do you want?” Proudmoore groaned “Because Alleria and Vereesa would want you saved? Because you helped me tremendously against Azshara? Because the thought of even _you_ sharing Arthas’ fate bothers me? 

“How about because I just blew through an enormous advantage to save everyone? It seems to have won me a few points with the Horde, if Liadrin is any indication, and I don’t want that to go to waste by letting you die!”

“Ah,” Sylvanas felt a twinge of vindication as a _real_ reason finally surfaced. “So, you _do_ want something.”

“Yes, I want you alive!” Proudmoore shouted. “Alive, and preferably cooperative and polite while you’re riding my body around like a golem! I want this entire war to grind to a halt, and more than anything I want your fucking Horde to stop _killing my friends!_

“I saved your people, I gave you a literal ton of Azerite ore, I saved your obviously Light-damned ass from the _fucking void,_ and I’m about to conspire with your lapdog and your necromancers to restore you to health!

“Of all the things I could ask for in return, some faith and goodwill make a damned good start and cost you absolutely nothing!”

Silence reigned for several moments. Sylvanas maintained her steady gait towards the portal, glancing around to make sure that no one overheard their argument. Be it due to fortune or Proudmoore – likely the latter – no one seemed to pay them any mind.

“I would appreciate some form of reply,” Proudmoore growled.

“Am I now expected to bare my heart to you, Proudmoore?”

“You could try – I might actually take you seriously if you did.”

“How about this, then?” Sylvanas took a breath and continued. “Firstly, that I have no trust for you at all, and am only a touch less certain of my inevitable demise now than before. Secondly, despite your emotional blathering, the idea of striking a bargain with me – something that would therefore require me to survive this ordeal – is the only rational thing you’ve stated.

“Instead of naively pleading for my trust, why don’t we start there?”

“Fine then,” the mage huffed. “Let’s start there. Let’s parley this obviously foreign, unrecognizable act of compassion into some sort of bargain to stop _killing each other,_ with this as the opening offer.”

The ever-present fear calmed somewhat as her tactical mind kicked into action. “For that to happen, there would need to be significant concessions on both sides. That ignores the fact that Greymane and Whisperwind would be unwilling to agree. Unless you’re speaking only of Kul-Tiras?”

“I’m not interested in solidifying anything right now – just having this argument is taxing. Let’s get situated first.”

Sylvanas was silent for a moment. Partly, she wanted to let Proudmoore sweat for a moment, but it was also to calm herself and refocus. Control; she’d wanted control, and this tiny shred was about as much as she could hope for.

“Very well,” she said finally. “I am interested in bargaining with you, Lady Proudmoore. We shall come to formal terms later. For now, let’s agree on the politeness and cooperation. I do, after all, wish to survive and remain hidden.”

“Excellent. Can we start with first names, then?”

“Of course, Jaina. I might even pay you a compliment or two while I’m at it.” 

“I look forward to it. Now, Sylvanas?”

“Yes?”

“I’m about to run dry. Want to grab one of those potions from Alleria?”

Sylvanas had never run faster in her life.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Taelia paced back and forth in front of the portal as soldiers came through in various states of health. Her breath caught whenever a fallen ally was carried through. It gave her fits and starts, even though the general murmuring said that Lady Jaina was alive and well, as well as the heroine of the day.

She absently raked her short dark hair back out of her eyes, just as annoyed at it as she was at the portal. She’d been raised on Kul-Tiras for most of her life. Her father, Bolvar Fordragon, had fought and died in the battles against the Lich King years ago. But the family and friends she’d made for herself here were… well, boring; though she’d never say it to their faces. Sir Cyrus Crestfall, once one of the Lord Admiral’s knights, and now the Harbormaster, was her guardian – and a damn good man. 

But now… 

When Lady Jaina arrived and turned the the islands upside down with her whirlwind arrest and ascension to Lord Admiral, Taelia felt as thought she’d truly come to life – breaking Alliance members out of Tol Dagor, grand adventures investigating corruption, the accusation of Lady Ashvane, the rescue of Lady Jaina, and now a war with the Horde…

She’d always love Cyrus, and perhaps it was presumptuous of her, but she felt more like her father’s daughter now than ever before. 

King Anduin had offered to tell her stories about her father, but something felt off there – and not only because the young King knew her father better than she did in those last years. Rather, the King – unlike everyone else who simply knew nothing about her father – tailored his words very carefully, as though avoiding a very unpleasant topic.

Which, naturally, led to her pacing here. Lady Jaina was kind, powerful and personally connected to the entire ordeal with the Lich King. If anyone knew about her father, she would; and if anyone was likely to tell her the full story, it would be the Lord Admiral.

The cheers rose in volume and pitch as Taelia saw the Lady Jaina approach the portal beside Lady Windrunner. She looked tired and – was she injured? She limped lightly, holding on to her demolished staff for support. Still, she had a determined look on her face, and barely broke stride as she stepped through from the island to Boralus.

“Welcome back, Lady Jaina!” Taelia called as she approached. For just a moment, the Lady eyed her with a cautious suspicion – then her face softened into a warm smile and she beckoned with a wand that she was also holding.

“Hello Taelia,” she greeted. “Is everything alright here?”

“Fine, far as I can tell,” she chirped. “I’m just happy to see you back in one piece.”

“Thank you. I’ll be alright; but I do need to rest and recover, and Lady Windrunner has a healer coming to meet me. Look for me tomorrow, alright?”

“I will!” Taelia promised. She turned to go, then stopped herself, taking a steadying breath. “Lady Jaina? Tomorrow… could we speak privately? About my father? It’s just…”

Lady Jaina’s face seemed frozen in time for a moment, as though she’d forgotten how to move her muscles. But the warm smile returned, and the archmage nodded solemnly. “I promise you, Taelia, I’ll answer any questions about your father. It was my honor to fight alongside him.”

“Thank you, my Lady!” she said, this time leaving with a quick salute. Finally, she’d have her answers! She couldn’t wait to tell Cyrus later tonight! For now, she raced back toward her gryphon, Galeheart. She had just enough time to make it to her patrol shift; there was no point being late, even if they might forgive her. 

As she mounted up, she missed the moment where Jaina whipped around, her eyes wide as saucers, staring as if truly seeing her for the first time.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Katherine watched the portal from her balcony high atop the tower in Proudmoore Keep. Worry battled with dignity as she toyed with the idea of being the first to greet Jaina at the portal versus waiting for her daughter to come home.

The reports said Jaina had survived the attack. That she had, in fact, saved them all. Tall tales of an epic brawl with not only the Warchief of the Horde, but the Queen of the Naga, herself, spread like wildfire throughout Boralus. With every soldier confirming the stories and adding details, perhaps the tale wasn’t so tall.

Which, of course, made it all the harder to wait patiently for her daughter to arrive. After living so long believing her daughter to have willfully killed her father and betrayed the family – and promptly having that very same betrayal served on her by Priscilla Ashvane, her friend for nearly her entire life…!

A weary sigh escaped her lips. She truly felt the ache in her bones these days. She was spry enough for an aging woman, but the weight of life felt so much heavier than any physical frailty. Guilt ravaged her soul whenever she found a quiet moment to think – years lost to her cowardice, when a simple letter on her behalf could have salvaged her relationship with Jaina instantly. Just one letter to Theramore, and the entire ‘Daughter of the Sea’ mess could have been avoided; Kul-Tiras would have remained in the Alliance; their trade routes would have prospered rather than withered away, and perhaps they might have even saved Theramore itself…

…and if not… If not, then Jaina could have come home to heal.

“Mother!” 

Katherine turned as Tandred crashed into the room, a grown man with the clumsiness of youth still about him. His red hair and beard reminded her so dearly of her late husband; it was lighter than his deep auburn, but what she wouldn’t give to see them stand side-by-side, each the spitting image of the other…

“Mother, you’re crying!” Tandred scooped her into a crushing hug, and she let herself rest for a moment in that comfort. “It’ll be alright,” he soothed. “Everyone says Jaina’s in one piece. Tides, they say she froze the entire damn island!”

“I know,” she whispered, giving her son a final squeeze before letting go. “I’ll be happy once she’s home and safe, with us.”

“Soon, Mother. You’ll see.” A moment passed, with Tandred nearly bouncing on his feet. Katherine was just about to ask what he was thinking, when—

“She said yes!”

Katherine blinked. Blinked again. “I beg pardon?”

“Mishan said yes!” Tandred said, his smile splitting his face. “I asked her just after she got back – I was just so… I had to. I had— and she said yes!”

“Oh - _oh!_ Tan, that’s wonderful news!” Katherine’s heart soared at her son’s news. “She’s such a nice girl, and a captain just like you, and – oh, your father would be so proud of you! Both of you!”

Tandred laughed, shuffling his feet. “It was — I just…”

“It’s alright,” Katherine patted his hand. “I was at quite a loss for words myself when your father proposed. I felt like the boom just swept me over the rail!”

“That’s about right!” Tandred reached for her hand, squeezing it. “Mishan said she talked to Jaina, had a few drinks with her. I’ll bet they were talking about this.”

“Oh, Tan. Of course, they were; there isn’t a country anywhere where the women don’t talk about their men, and the men their women.”

“I think I might owe Jaina a drink or two myself,” he chuckled. 

“Tomorrow, when she’s recovered. We can—”

Cheers erupted around the portal, and Katherine turned to see Jaina step through, leaning wearily on her staff. Young Taelia immediately bounded forward to welcome her, followed by what must have been half the city. 

A tearful smile fought its way onto her face. Now that she could see her safe and sound, Jaina brought forth such a feeling of pride – here was her vindication for the hundreds of arguments she’d had with Daelin to send her to Dalaran to study magecraft, rather than settle for the life of a Tidesage. Look at her; every single boast from Alliance champions that her Jaina was the most powerful mage alive proven true in the most spectacular way.

Let anyone in Kul-Tiras doubt her daughter now.

“Come on,” she said, pulling at her son. “Go hound the kitchens to have something sent to her rooms, then let’s welcome your sister home.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

The High King of the Alliance left his throne empty, hiding from courtiers in his office. More important things than the trivial matters of state weighed on him; things best endured by sitting in a comfortable chair in a dark room staring at a warm fire in the hearth, rather than parsing idle chatter for important information or potential power plays.

Anduin wrung his hands as he anxiously awaited word on his aunt. The returning soldiers spoke wondrously of the Lord Admiral predicting an ambush, holding off the first wave of attackers for several moments, fighting the Warchief of the Horde on her own, freezing a wave the size of a mountain to save both the Horde and Alliance, working with the Warchief to fight off Azshara, the Queen of the Naga… Soldier after soldier gave testimony to the prowess of Lady Jaina Proudmoore.

All his heart could hear was “Auntie Jaina was hurt,” and his world became fragile as glass. Thoughts of politics vanished; instead he whispered fervent prayers to the Light for Jaina’s safety.

When the Horde had destroyed Theramore, he’d lost his aunt more and more to her obsessive hatred. When the Legion had killed his father, she’d disappeared in a rage for months, appearing only very rarely. Champions and travellers had sometimes seen her in their journeys, hunting demons and their minions. Occasionally he’d hear that she’d come to Stormwind to visit the very few survivors of Theramore, especially the orphans.

Without both his father and aunt, Anduin began to despair – the Alliance was in poor condition; King Genn Greymane, who fashioned himself his advisor, was obsessed with killing the Banshee Queen, and scarcely had much to offer in the way of guidance. A young blond haired, blue-eyed king on the throne of Stormwind made for pretty posters and happy children’s tales; but he had yet to prove himself to the other Alliance leaders, who thought far less of him than they did his father. 

At a time when he needed peace to settle into rulership the Horde had burned Darnassus, leaving the Night Elves homeless. When Anduin had led the retaliatory assault against the Undercity at Lordaeron, he’d suffered such losses that he’d believed fervently he was witnessing the Alliance’s final battle.

Then his aunt had appeared, sailing on an old Kul-Tiran warship that soared through the skies on a current of magic, whose enchanted cannons tore down the walls of the city while Jaina herself froze the blight from the sky. 

And they’d won. 

Yes, others had joined in as they could, and far more fighting had occurred before the battle was truly over… and he’d blundered rather stupidly into a trap that his aunt saved him from yet again… 

But for Anduin, the defining moment in the Battle for Lordaeron – in the last two years, _period_ , was the sight of his aunt sailing in through the fog, bringing hope and color back to his world.

They had yet to truly sit down and catch up with each other; with this latest scare, that was now foremost on Anduin’s mind. All other business could wait. 

If Jaina survived. She had to. She was so strong… but still mortal.

She had to.

A knock at his door jarred him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see his trusted friend — and his most notorious spy – entering quietly, shutting the door behind her. 

Valeera Sanguinar, a Blood Elf with no ties to the Horde, and no official ties to the Alliance, had been one of his father’s best friends. That loyalty passed on to him, and would, he supposed, pass on to his children. As an elf, she would outlive him for generations to come. 

Her signature red leathers and enchanted daggers made only the slightest noise as she approached and sat opposite him in the second chair. She lowered her hood, gathering her long, blonde locks behind her shoulders. Emerald eyes regarded him with a relaxed kindness, immediately raising his hopes for good news.

“I return just now from Boralus,” she said quietly. “I have seen Lady Proudmoore firsthand – she is alive and well, returning to her home to recover.”

“Thank you, Eternal and Everlasting Light,” he whispered as a large tear tracked heavily down his cheek. “Thank you for your grace and mercy in this time of strife, and for bringing our loved ones home safely.”

“Come now,” Valeera joked. “I should tell her about how little faith you have in her.”

“Of course,” he laughed, wiping moisture from his eyes and face. “I can just see the both of you needling me mercilessly.”

“I’m certain we’d both enjoy it, too.” Valeera’s smile faded away to a more businesslike look. “The rumors are true; this is the story as I understand it: 

“Lady Proudmoore’s fleet arrived ahead of schedule, inadvertently thwarting a Horde raid on the island. The Warchief was present and launched a two-pronged attack. Lady Proudmoore survived an ambush by the Warchief and her advance forces, holding a portal open while enduring their assault. She disappeared for a time, according to witnesses – my speculation is to tend to injuries that she’d received. According to the soldiers, she did get knocked around a bit.

“Lady Windrunner arrived with reinforcements through the portal just as the second wave of Horde forces attacked. Lady Windrunner and the Warchief attacked each other. Lady Proudmoore reappeared and began a one-on-one fight with the Warchief – this is when Lady Windrunner came to us for reinforcements, I’d imagine. They disengaged shortly after and returned to their respective armies, though I heard one soldier telling a tale of the Warchief with her hands cut off. We’ll have to ask your aunt to tell us that story.

“Kul-Tiran Sailors reported that they had won the naval battle handily, and that the Lord Admiral sent them home safely. No word on the Horde fleet’s survival; they’re likely dead.

“The appearance of Queen Azshara and her Naga, as well as the giant wave prompted Lady Proudmoore and the Warchief to cooperate. Horde and Alliance forces formed a joint defence against the Naga. Lady Proudmoore unleashed a spell to freeze the giant wave as it passed over the island, creating a safe zone for them. She duelled with Queen Azshara, and with the help of the Warchief and others, managed to oust her. From there, the Warchief was carried off unconscious, while Lady Proudmoore returned on her own power.”

“Good.” Anduin let out his breath. “That all sounds good. What are the losses?”

“No solid numbers yet. I’m guessing around two hundred, once the healers are through. I’d guess thirty or forty were Kul-Tiran, which about matches the ratio of who came from where.”

Anduin winced, but slowly shook his head. “Two hundred on an island excursion is a devastating loss, but… all things considered, we could have lost two thousand.”

“Exactly.”

“Alright, what about the Azerite?”

Valeera’s ears drooped a slight bit, though she remained otherwise stoic. “At the end of the battle with Azshara, Lady Proudmoore divided the remaining Azerite, likely to prevent a resumption of combat.”

“Probably wise… but terribly expensive.” Anduin closed his eyes, hating himself for even uttering those words. “We’re going to feel the loss of that Azerite, especially if the Naga are forcing a new warfront upon us.”

“Most of the Azerite is heading here. The Kul-Tiran portion has been taken directly there. Rumor is that Lady Proudmoore herself requested a sizeable amount.”

“We’ll manage.” Anduin stood, stretching and rolling the stress from his shoulders. “I should get back out there and deal with any last-minute business for the evening. Tomorrow, I think I’ll pay Auntie a visit.”

“Of course,” Valeera agreed, standing and walking towards the door. “I will find my way into Orgrimmar and see what might be seen. I shall return tomorrow evening, or the following morning at the latest.”

“Be careful,” Anduin cautioned. Silence answered him, and he took his time gathering his hair into a ponytail and straightening his shirt, knowing that Valeera was likely halfway out of the castle by now. With a final sigh, he turned and entered the throne room, steeling himself once more for the politics of nobility.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Jaina ached throughout her … well, her spirit, she supposed. Her mana was quickly depleting; she’d already worked through both of Alleria’s potions and was on her last one, and Sylvanas couldn’t possibly hobble fast enough towards the keep. Maintaining a constant farsight spell was straightforward. Disguising her face and speaking through a vocal projection spell was a trip back to her early years of apprenticeship.

Doing so while also maintaining an ad-hoc spirit cage created by inverting a standard weave to remove curses and cross-threading it with a mana shield, channeling the whole mess through her old wand because her staff was so broken as to be a worse conduit?

Now _that_ was hard. Hard, and sloppy.

Giving Sylvanas motor control meant she lacked the ability to define her etheric constructs by gesture, which meant her magic flowed like cold molasses. Her wand couldn’t properly handle the amount of mana she needed, so she had to overcommit to supply the remainder raw, rapidly sapping her reserves at the absolute worst time.

If she could, she’d weave an invisibility spell to help avoid people, or even teleport them directly to her workshop – but she no longer had the mana for such things. So, she resolved to hold on as hard as she could, knowing that she’d have to talk her way past guards, her family, and Tides-forbid any other well-wishers…

“We truly need to hurry,” she muttered quietly.

“If I go any faster, I may as well start jogging,” came the frustrated reply. 

“It’s not too much farther,” Alleria soothed. “We’ll be there shortly. Where are we going, once we’re inside?”

“From just inside the main gate, the third door on the right is the staircase down,” Jaina instructed. “All the way down the hall to the right, then down another set of stairs. My lab is the only room in that hall.”

Sylvanas grunted an acknowledgement, sipping slowly on her potion.

Soon the wooden homes and storefronts gave way to well-maintained stone buildings, all of them of military design. Jaina steered Sylvanas toward Proudmoore Keep, a sprawling white complex with a tall tower at its centre and a bridge crossing north over the water to the barracks and training yard. Seeing the diminutive void elf waiting with the guards at the front of the keep, Jaina quietly directed Sylvanas to hobble up the stairs towards them.

“Miss Windwhisper, it’s good to see you again,” Jaina greeted. The shadow priestess dipped into a proper curtsy. 

“The pleasure is mine, my Lady” she replied quietly.

“Are you coming in, Lady Alleria?” Jaina asked.

“I … shouldn’t,” Alleria said, stepping away. “I think … I think I’ll visit my sister in Dalaran.”

Sylvanas jerked upright, but thankfully did not speak. 

“I’m sure she would appreciate it,” Jaina said with a smile. “Please give Vereesa my best.”

“Of course.” Alleria smiled secretively. “I’m sure she’ll want to visit.”

“I’ll make sure you both have rooms,” Jaina offered, eying the senior guard as she did.

“Yes, Lord Admiral, we’ll get it done.” One of the guards left to convey the orders. Alleria said her farewells and Sylvanas made her way inside, Carissa trailing behind.

Just a little longer…

“Jaina!”

Sylvanas barely turned in time as her mother rushed forward to crush her in a fierce embrace. Jaina worried for a moment that Sylvanas might strike out, but she watched as her body’s fists unclenched and her arms found their way around her mother, mindful of the sparking staff.

“I was so worried!” Katherine released her finally. “When they said you were attacked, I thought, surely – but the stories, Jaina! They said you fought the _Warchief!_ They said something about Azshara and the Naga! What – what happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Jaina replied, not exaggerating her fatigue in the slightest. “But that all sounds very close to the truth. I’ll tell you the whole thing tomorrow, I promise. Right now, I desperately need to get to my workshop…”

“Of course, darling! I’ll have a meal sent up to your rooms.”

“Thank y—”

“Jaina!”

Once again, Sylvanas struggled to return a mammoth hug, this time from her brother.

“The heroine returns, triumphant!” He crowed. “And I have even more to thank you for! Jaina – Mishan, I asked – and she said yes! She said yes!!”

“Oh, Tandred, that’s amazing to hear!” Jaina gushed. Sylvanas surprised her by lunging forward to capture Tandred in yet another hug. “What wonderful news to come home to!”

“I know you two talked, but – well, we can do this tomorrow. I know you’re tired.”

“We will,” Jaina promised. “I truly need to go. Miss Windwhisper here will give me a once over to heal any remaining injuries, and then all I want is a bath and bed.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then.” Katherine took Tandred by the arm, leading him off. “Do remember to eat something when you head upstairs, dear. We’ll see you in the morning!”

“Goodnight, Mother!”

Sylvanas wasted no time reaching the third door, finishing the last of the potion. “How are we for time?” she whispered quietly. 

“As long as there are no more delays, we’ll be fine,” Jaina replied wearily. “There shouldn’t be anyone here but be rude if you have to. No more delays.”

“Oh my,” Carissa whispered. “When Lady Alleria said – I’d scarcely believed that…”

“No. More. Delays. _Hurry._ ”

Sylvanas dropped all pretence and ran down the hall, down the stairs, and stopped at the open doorway. Inside was Jaina’s work room, complete with alchemical devices, books, scrolls, clutter only she might recognize, all dominated by the enormous silver circle on the ground, with a large, elaborate Rune of Power the size of a horse carved into the stone inside the perimeter and filled in with pure, transmuted leycrystal.

“Shut the door, then into the circle,” Jaina commanded. Carissa shut the door gently as Sylvanas stepped across the silver ring.

“I’m surprised you leave this room open,” Sylvanas said as she reached the center, tapping the ruined staff against the crystal.

“Oh, it’s heavily warded. I can enter freely, and anyone with me, but no one else. The door is usually open so that people can get my attention. A closed door is effectively a ‘Do Not Disturb’ order. Carissa, stay outside for now. Give me a moment…”

Pushing her magic as quickly as it would crawl without gestures, Jaina formed the activation matrix for the rune circle. Her spirit’s bindings shuddered and snapped in some places as her mana stretched to the breaking point. She abandoned her illusory disguises on her body and face to free up power, revealing her remaining injuries and Sylvanas’ wide, fearful gaze.

Tiny wisps of shadow trickled out along her arms and chest. Almost immediately, the imperceptible whispers began – whispers Jaina knew belonged to the void. 

“Jaina…” Sylvanas whispered worriedly. Shadows in the room began to bend in strange ways.

“Lady, the void,” Carissa warned from outside the circle. “It comes!”

“I’m hurrying!” she shouted, straining to compete the pattern. Just a touch more – she ended her speech spell, throwing its remaining power into the weave. She prepared to end the farsight spell, too… casting blind would be an interesting feeling.

With a surge along the edges, the matrix finally began to oscillate, several parts rotating in different directions to control the mana flow. As it sank down into the crystal, the entire circle began to glow a dull white. The Rune of Power came to life, pumping raw arcane energy directly from the leyline beneath the keep. It shot up into a similar circle on the ceiling which absorbed and refined the flow, sending soft, azure trails of mana down the edges of the circle to gather near the bottom, pooling thicker and thicker until she stood in the middle of a solid column of softly undulating arcane energy. 

The strain faded away blissfully as the energies sank into her being, filling the greedy hollows within her.

“Oh, that’s so much better,” Jaina sighed as she restored her speech and repaired her bindings. Almost immediately the shadows that were Sylvanas Windrunner sank comfortably back into her body, and the whispers ceased.

“Alright, we’re halfway there. Put my staff on the table? It can stay there. Now, can you step out and over to that cabinet? There’s another staff inside that we can use.”

Sylvanas reached the cabinet and retrieved the staff – a violet wrapped affair with flaring steel embellishments all along the length. At its tip was a vertical circle of leystone. Sections of the circle were broken and floating mid-air around the staff, held in place by the general strengthening enchantment that ran the entire length. Set vertically through the broken circle and extending out past the top was a large leycrystal whose sickly green glow betrayed its fel-corrupted nature. 

“Hmm. Green doesn’t seem your usual color, Proudmoore,” Sylvanas mused as she examined the staff.

“This staff was brought to me by an Alliance champion. Apparently, it belonged to one of the echoes of me that appeared from another time and dimension.”

“Ah, yes. I gather I had one, myself.”

“There’s a slight dissonance – resemblance aside, ‘she’ was not ‘me,’ after all – but it’s quite powerful and makes for a wonderful backup. Would you put the wand in my left pouch, please?” 

Sylvanas complied, seeming completely unsurprised that the entire length of the wand fit down into the much smaller container. 

“You store things mid-air, and yet you have these. Why…?”

“For times like right now when I can’t open the spatial fold. For items that need to be on my person to function properly. For more formal settings when I’m carrying things, but magic is frowned upon. Because I can…? Just get back into the circle.”

With a sigh Sylvanas fell silent, watching the patterns weaving across the ether as Jaina worked on a more efficient solution to her binding.

“Lady Proudmoore, Lady Windrunner, may I begin while you work?”

“That isn’t a problem,” Jaina said.

“Agreed,” Sylvanas nodded at the priestess. She pulled back her cloak and carefully removed the bandages. 

“I shall be as quick as possible,” Carissa promised as she set to work, targeting every scar, swelling and unusual mark she could find while Sylvanas dutifully turned in place to give her access. Jaina could ever so slightly feel the shadow magics at work as she finalized her own project. 

Silence reigned for several minutes as both spellcasters plied their trade, the curious crimson gaze of the Warchief glancing between the priestess and the constant flow of mana from the staff in her hand coalescing into ever more complicated spellweave. Soon Carissa judged her work complete, stepping away from Jaina’s now healthy, unscarred body and sitting on the stool by the table.

Finally, Jaina snapped the patterns together, letting them collapse into her body. She felt her power load lighten as her new workings replaced and dispelled the old. “There. That ought to work. Step outside the circle, please. I need to test things.”

As the banshee complied, the staff in her hand flared up, unleashing an enormous gout of flame back towards the circle. The flames swirled around, caught up in the mana flow. The tongue of fire looped lazily around in the air several times before it finally dissipated. 

“Okay, it seems like…” Jaina waited, and was rewarded with the sensation of mana trickling in. “Success!”

“You have achieved your desired result, then?” Sylvanas asked, a spark of curiosity on her face.

“We’re now stable – for the few days we might need to be, at any rate.”

Sylvanas gave her a small, genuine smile. “Thank you, Jaina.”

“You’re welcome. Now, Miss Windwhisper, would you like a room for the night?”

“Oh, no, Lady,” the elf shook her head vigorously. “I have family to return to. With your permission, I will take my leave and return in … two days, perhaps?”

“Perfect.”

“I will see myself out for the night. Please have a good evening.”

The elf hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

“Hm. That was abrupt,” Jaina mused. 

“Might be because I’m standing here in your mostly naked body watching you cast spells invisibly around me. One can only take so much, you know.”

“You—” Jaina broke off as laughter overtook her. “You have the most eloquent way to describe things, Sylvanas.”

“I aim to please. Now: I believe our next trip is to your rooms? Specifically, I think we need to relieve ourselves.”

“Ah, yes,”Jaina chuckled, glad she couldn’t blush as a wave of embarrassment washed over her. “Straight into the awkward moments, then. Well, now that I have some mana to my name and a working staff, we can take shortcuts.”

With a flash, the room around them faded into light, reforming into a large white room embellished with stripped log pillars and edging. A large central window overlooked the naval academy to the west. Near the center of the room stood a large, round wooden tub; to one side was a rather fancy latrine hidden behind a divide. 

“Welcome to my ensuite,” Jaina said quietly. “If you’ll go take care of the ‘relieving,’ I’ll run us a bath.”

Jaina pulled on her mana, conjuring a torrent of water to quickly fill the tub, as well as fire to heat it. Sylvanas stalked toward the latrine, discarding the cloak and other remnants of clothing that had survived the battle.

“Where’s…?” She looked back to see Sylvanas searching for a towelette.

“It’s enchanted. Just do your business; you’ll be clean when you stand up.”

“Of course, it is,” Sylvanas muttered. 

Jaina focused on the bath, floating over a woven basket of salts. After trying and failing several times to levitate a reasonable amount, Jaina manifested an illusory clone of herself, complete with a partial kinetic barrier. While quite weak, it did give her semi-solid ‘fingers’ to work with. She might not wield her staff with this form, but she could carefully add a couple handfuls of mineral salts to the water. 

“Shall I step in?” Sylvanas asked as she stepped up beside her. Jaina paused for a moment at the sight of her body, fully nude, sporting glowing red eyes. Oh, this little adventure would be a series of trials. 

“Please,” Jaina offered, adjusting her image to match and stepping in. She might not feel the bath, but it seemed …awkward at best to not actually participate.

“I like this already,” Sylvanas said as she sat and leaned back, resting her head against a built-in cushion. “In the interest of small talk, I haven’t actually been able to feel well enough to enjoy a bath since my death. I suppose that makes this a first of sorts.”

“Well, there’s one more perk.” The staff that floated dutifully beside Sylvanas flared to life, and the water of the bath bubbled up into the shape of a small water elemental. Immediately, the form sank into the bath again, and the waters of the tub began to roil and swirl steadily, small currents of mineral water massaging the aches from sore muscles.

Sylvanas hummed in approval, closing her eyes and relaxing. Jaina, unable to think of a suitable topic to carry on with, fell into a slight meditation and left the banshee to her bath.

Truthfully, things had gone rather well thus far; probably as well as possible. Despite being bitchy, temperamental, and distrustful, Sylvanas had kept her word about being cooperative. 

Once her body’s skin was suitably pruned and into a snug bath robe, Jaina ushered them into her room, a very pale lavender affair with white accents. The four-post bed that dominated the room featured drapes and a duvet in the pale aquamarine that was the signature of House Proudmoore. Sylvanas eyed her treasures along the walls – what few she had left – but Jaina sat her at the small table near the balcony where a large bowl of chowder and fresh-baked bread awaited.

While Sylvanas devoured her meal – another first, she imagined – Jaina moved to her writing desk and checked the top-left drawer. Her heart fell as she pulled out a loose letter whose ink had yet to dry. The header, ‘Casualty Report,’ told her all she needed to know. With a defeated sigh – mostly in her head since she had no body to speak of – she let the letter fall to her desk. There would be letters to write.

“I also haven’t slept in years,” Sylvanas began as she rose from her completed meal. “I wonder if I’ll be able to.”

“You’ll have to. I need the recovery, a few hours at the very least. Night slips are in that drawer.” Jaina let Sylvanas find her way under the covers as she pulled a rather small potion from her night stand. “Here,” she left it where Sylvanas could reach. “This is for dreamless sleep.”

Sylvanas arched an eyebrow. “You expect me to have nightmares?”

“Not as such – but it does promote a very healthy, restful state, so I’d recommend it.”

“I suppose,” the banshee sighed, quickly downing the potion. “Good night, Jaina. With luck, your spells will hold and we’ll both still be here in the morning.”

“Goodnight, Sylvanas.” Jaina allowed her image, sight and speech spells to fade, relaxing as best she could in her inner darkness. She set a simple alarm for the morning, and waited as the potion kicked in.

…and waited…

…and waited…

Sylvanas was well asleep – her body’s slow, rhythmic breathing told her as much. But Jaina, spirit that she was, apparently did not receive that luxury.

“Well,” she said, reforming herself. “That’s just wonderful.”

Deciding to make the best of it, she sat at her desk, quickly pulling out her ink pen and several sheets of paper. “Alright, Jaina, may as well make yourself useful. You have no sense of touch, and if you press too hard, the pen will go right through your fingers. No problem! Time to learn how to write all over again!”

She snorted as her first letters resembled a five-year-old’s travesty. She pulled out some of her old writing and began to practice. 

Her writing became passable after around two hours of trying. It would do – correction spells could refine it the rest of the way. Glancing at the clock, she had four more hours until her alarm ‘woke’ her. She had plenty of time to write – she checked the report – thirty-seven condolence letters to Kul-Tiran families, plus a few general ones for Stormwind. 

Ah, well. Perhaps not being able to cry was a blessing in disguise. Steeling herself, she put pen to paper and began. 

_‘Dear Mrs. Eiling,_

_It is with both pride and sadness that I write to you today about the passing of your son…’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The Windrunner Sisters, Take Two.


	5. A Tea Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the green light from JE_Talveran and katofthenorth, I present to you:
> 
> Sylvanas Experiences an Emotion. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Gentle chimes echoed through the mists. The grass of Quel’Thalas swayed in time to the etherial song as she danced across the field, her sisters only a step behind. Her brother… but he was gone. Wasn’t he?

She should be angry.

Her blades clashed against the black steel of Frostmourne. The death knight behind the blade sneered, his mouth moving – but only a dim muttering escaped, quickly lost in the song. She knew him.

She should be angry.

Great cracks of light erupted from the ground, spreading light to meld with the song. The knight and his sword seemed so far away, the splendour of Silvermoon’s graceful spires gleamed in the brightness, distracting her even as the chimes grew in power, swallowing the world until all that remained was—

Her eyes blinked open. Her first breath brought with it a feeling of comfort, peace and _life_. Without thinking, she stretched her entire body, arms and legs straight out as she kicked gently against the soft blankets, simply happy to be. 

What a beautiful morning.

“Good morning, Sylvanas.” The chiming ceased. A glance towards the foot of the bed showed her the illusory form of Proudmoore and —

Shadows raced across her thoughts, tearing through her happiness like the cursed blade that took her life. The claustrophobic panic of her state as a prisoner wearing an enemy’s form struck her with such brutality that tears formed in her borrowed eyes.

“Good morning,” she rasped, rubbing her eyes to hide her reaction. “Jaina,” she added belatedly; they’d reached an agreement yesterday. A bargain. There was a promise of survival. She was alive. She would soon be whole. This resurgence of fear was… inconvenient. Aggravating. Reality had stolen her moment of happiness.

“Did you sleep well?” Jaina asked, her head still facing her desk and the large stack of papers that sat to one side.

“I did.” Sylvanas completed her stretching, wishing to reclaim the leftover shreds of her joy. “I remember… little. Glimpses of Silvermoon. Some bits about the battle and my death. Nothing serious, though. It seems your potion lives up to its name.”

“I’m glad.” Jaina turned to face her. “I felt relaxed and restored for the most part, so I was hoping you’d feel the same.”

“But you did not sleep?” Sylvanas gestured toward the desk. 

Jaina shook her head. “It appears that I don’t get that luxury in this state,” she gestured to herself. “But I’ll live for a few days. At least I can still be productive.”

Sylvanas eased herself out of bed, marvelling silently at the subtle aches and strains of a living body. She made her way over to the desk. “What is it that you’ve been up to?”

“The less glamorous side of leadership.” Jaina handed her a letter from the top of the pile. 

“Ah,” Sylvanas quickly skimmed the contents, “I’ve written a handful of these, more since becoming Warchief.” 

“Not my favorite duty.” Jaina tapped a smaller pile. “These were the hardest, because I knew the people. A couple were from prominent families, so a more elaborate and personalized letter was warranted. I’m just glad it’s done.”

“Indeed.” Sylvanas wandered over to the closet. “What are your morning routines, Jaina? I’m assuming you set that musical alarm for a reason.” Picking through the mage’s wardrobe, Sylvanas selected a a modest shirt and pair of leathers. 

“Normally, I go though some meditation exercises – energy focusing and building, mostly. I’ve been up all night, though, and my magics are active, so I can go without.”

“Hmm. If it’s acceptable to you, I’d like to attempt my old exercises. For experience’s sake, if nothing else.”

“I don’t mind,” Jaina replied, smiling. “Just go easy – I’d like to think I’m in decent shape, but I certainly am no athlete.”

“I promise to be careful.”

“Alright.” Sylvanas felt Jaina’s magic surging around her. “How much room do you need?”

\---== {(0)} ==---

The northern forests of Stormsong Valley echoed with the chirps and squawking of birds, and the huffing and puffing of a sweaty Lord Admiral. Out here, miles away from even the remotest hunter’s cabin, Jaina could assure them privacy.

Sylvanas put her new body though its paces, moving from one set of calisthenics to the next. Jaina was correct – she was indeed in ‘decent shape’ for a human woman of noble descent. She had just enough muscle to support her rather plentiful curves, but certainly not the slender, athletic build of a Quel’dorei Farstrider. 

Adapting to Jaina’s frame, the true purpose behind the request, was an ongoing effort. Jaina was taller than her own body, and – oddly the more challenging issue – broader. She had surprising flexibility – likely those interesting meditative contortions that mages frequently did – but the placement of her shoulders and hips prevented some of her normal exercises.

She grinned to herself, remembering Nathanos struggling with the same exercises back when he’d first begun to train as a Farstrider. At the time, she’d ribbed him mercilessly for it. Now here she was, failing the very same movements despite her best attempts. 

Jaina put the time to use with one of those meditations of hers. Sylvanas felt and saw arcane rivers flow up and around her through the ether, coming together above her and diving back though her center. The entire field ebbed and flowed in time with Sylvanas’ breath, a moment of peace that she appreciated.

The familiar sound of chimes signalled Jaina’s reappearance. Her illusion gave a convincing sigh, moving to stand beside her. 

“That’s all the time we have,” she said sadly. “The rest of the household will be moving now, and in about a half-hour Mother will expect us for breakfast.”

“Very well,” Sylvanas grunted as she stood, dusting her hands off. “Enough time for one of those baths of yours?”

“Of course,” Jaina replied. In an instant they were gone, leaving the birds to their singing.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Mishan smiled as Tandred gaped in awe at his sister’s tale. Breakfast progressed rather slowly as both Katherine and Tan peppered Jaina endlessly with questions about the battle. Somehow Jaina managed to hide her frustration behind a smile – Mishan suspected an illusion at play.

It felt nice to sit here with her soon-to-be in-laws. Jaina’s warning about wasting time stuck with her; doubly so after that unexpected battle and the severity of events. The Horde was a well-known, ever-present thorn, but Azshara… to have a living myth rise out of the waters and turn the ocean against them…

One of her sailors quit an hour after they’d reached port. He’d vowed on the spot to move his family up into the mountains, and that was that. Given what they’d been through, she could hardly blame him. How many more might shy away from the waves with such a fierce enemy waiting. Tales of intrepid mariners braving all the world could throw at them were just that – tales. Life changed the moment you had a family.

“How are the men holding up, Mishan?” Katherine asked, drawing her from her musings. 

“As well as can be expected,” she offered with a half-shrug. “Had one of mine quit – hope that’s not a common thing.”

“Agreed,” Tandred said with a scowl. “We’ll have to do something to raise spirits.”

“We’ll think of something,” Jaina tempered. “I still have two more days before I’m officially ‘back’ and my endless meetings resume, so we have some time to come up something.”

“Don’t count on it,” Katherine warned. “Lucille was already at me this morning on my walk about the Ashvane Company. There are a lot of influential backers that want a quick return to production – how we’re going to handle that…”

“I have ideas,” Jaina said, her voice somewhat darker. “Admiral Waycrest will have to wait – with luck, I can get things moving today.”

“Do I want to know what you’re planning, Jaina?” Katherine eyed her daughter’s dark smirk and shook her head. “Do be careful. They might work for traitors, but those are simple workers.”

“Let’em have it,” Tandred said through a mouthful of sausage. “We won’t survive this war if we have to keep half our boys home, so we aren’t stabbed in the back again!”

“Tan,” Mishan scolded, poking him in the side. “We can’t just run roughshod over them. Even if we put away every single Ashvane – which would be terribly heavy-handed – we’ll _still_ need the workers to work, you know.”

“Still.” Tan gave her a mulish look, and Mishan rolled her eyes. Was she really marrying this boy? The hard look in Jaina’s eyes, though, told her that the Lord Admiral agreed with her brother. Deciding that discretion was in order, Mishan speared a slice of apple and took her time eating it. 

The sharp knock at the doorway turned their attention to the chamberlain, who looked rather frazzled. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your meal,” he said, “But High King Wrynn has just arrived by portal and awaits your pleasure.”

Jaina tensed, her hand jerking almost as though she’d thought to go for the knife – and Mishan tried not to laugh, as she’d hate to bring that to anyone’s attention. Poor Jaina would be so embarrassed. 

“Give me five minutes, and then send His Majesty to my sitting room,” Jaina ordered. “It might be business, but I think my unofficial nephew is just paying his injured aunt a visit.”

Jaina was quickly off to her rooms, and Mishan quickly finished her apple and the rest of a sausage before standing herself. “Thank you for the lovely breakfast,” she said to Katherine, who waved her off.

“You are family,” the elder Proudmoore said with finality. “You’ll always have a seat at this table.”

“Thank you,” Mishan repeated, her voice thick with emotion. 

“Meet me for lunch?” Tan asked, reaching for her hand. 

She smiled and took it. “Of course, love. Now, let me see what the day has in store for me.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Are we ready for this?” Sylvanas asked, pacing back and forth in the room. “The boy is a priest of the Light. Surely, he’d sense me immediately.”

“We’ll be fine,” Jaina soothed, somewhat distracted by the magics she wove. “You’re going to be hugged, not healed. Anduin is a sensitive soul – he’ll probably want to hold your hand. If you feel gathering Light, just gently push his hands away.”

The illusory masks she layered about her would prevent Anduin sensing much of anything. Still, better to not test it too much. Even the most docile gryphon would leave scars on their rider, and Sylvanas was a thousand times worse than any gryphon. No matter how polite she was on the surface, if she felt cornered, she’d likely lash out and there would be a fel-ridden mess the size of a continent to clean up.

Jaina took a metaphorical breath to center herself, missing her body’s weight and sensations. She’d survive this, just like every other hair-raising, life-altering catastrophe brought about by her cursed inability to stay silent while others suffered. With a thought, she lit the hearth and repositioned the chairs to sit a touch closer with a small table between them.

“And if that fails to deter him?” Sylvanas pressed. “If he senses something? What then?”

“Just be calm and react with affection. Keep the staff hovering close beside you, and we’ll be fine.”

“This is an enormous risk. If we—”

Sylvanas cut herself off as rushed footsteps approached the room. Jaina allowed her illusory self to fade away. The door opened as forcefully as politeness allowed, stopping just shy of hitting the wall.

“Auntie!” 

The young man strode across the room, scooping her into a firm embrace. Sylvanas was quick to reciprocate, and Anduin held her tightly, swaying back and forth as he buried his face into her shoulder. 

Jealously and sympathy warred in Jaina’s mind. One one hand, this moment – Anduin’s joy and affection – were hers, and Sylvanas had stolen them for herself. On the other, this was likely the most tender, loving moment the Warchief would have experienced in ages. She clearly had a reaction to it – her breathing was off, and her heart rate slightly elevated. 

“I was so worried,” Anduin murmured against her shoulder. “All I could think of was when father died, and … what if I lost you, too?”

Unbidden, Sylvanas brought one hand up to stroke Anduin’s hair, causing him to tighten his embrace further. 

“I was worried, too,” Jaina whispered to him. “I so desperately wanted to come home to everyone.”

Anduin refused to let go of Sylvanas’ hand as she led him to the chairs. He spoke non-stop about his waiting for word about her, segueing into Stormwind politics and its bickering nobility. Jaina let him ramble on, answering where appropriate and carefully weaving her tale for her nephew. Her attention centred more on the woman who controlled her body.

Peering through the illusions, Jaina marvelled at the look of pure wonder on Sylvanas’ face; as though she couldn’t possibly fathom someone enjoying her company. She stared openly at Anduin, lapping up every ounce of adoration he gave her, her mouth slightly open in constant surprise. 

Jaina’s heart lurched at the longing in Sylvanas’ gaze. Here, hidden behind deceit, illusion and the need to appear unassailable, was an elven woman receiving love that she’d long been denied; a woman so starved for affection that even Anduin’s inadvertent attention touched her deeply.

Soon the stories petered out. Jaina conjured pastries and warm cider; Sylvanas was very convincing with her hand gestures – they were spot on to the ethereal construct. A comfortable silence fell as Anduin and Sylvanas ate.

Anduin held on to her hand the entire time. 

Sylvanas’ smile exuded such peacefulness that Jaina scaled the illusion back to let it show; such genuine emotion would trump any approximation she could conjure. Anduin echoed that peace, and it lasted until her nephew started fidgeting, signalling a return to illusions and conversation.

“Auntie,” Anduin began, looking away nervously and scratching his nose, “The day after tomorrow, we’re going to hold a mass service for the fallen soldiers, as well as a medal ceremony to celebrate its heroes.”

“Of course,” Jaina said while Sylvanas nodded. “I’ll be there – there are Kul-Tirans to honor, too.”

“Thank you.” Anduin paused, then seemed to kick himself back into action. “Auntie… you are one of the people we’d like to award a medal to. The Grand Marshal’s Medal of Valor. Your actions – I mean – you fought—”

“Me…?” It made sense, though. Morale was important. The highest honor the Alliance could award was, perhaps, excessive; especially considering that all other living recipients earned it fighting back the Burning Legion. But her battle perhaps warranted such an honor, especially if Anduin worded it as a cumulative accomplishment. “I … I understand.”

“Thank you.” Anduin exhaled in relief. “I’m sorry to drop that on you – and I’m probably interrupting your own business – but the people … seeing you would do them good.”

“I’ll get started on my acceptance speech,” Jaina chuckled. “Shall we say the medal is for Battle of Lordaeron, the island, and bringing Kul-Tiras back into the Alliance?”

“That sounds perfect!” The young king nodded vigorously. “I doubt any nay-sayers would argue much about that list.” He stood but paused, tilting his head. “Shall I gather the leaders for a meeting afterwards? Kill two birds with one stone?”

“A good idea,” Jaina said. “Now, I think you’d best be off – we both have work to do.” Sylvanas stood and pulled Anduin back in for another hug which Anduin returned enthusiastically. As the young King bounced out of the room, she made her way back to her chair, falling into it bonelessly.

“Are you alright?” Jaina asked softly, forming a body again. 

“Of course, I am,” the banshee snapped wearily. Then she shook her head. “No, I’m not alright. He all but jumped on me, and then the only thing I could think of was—” she looked up to Jaina, “—did Vereesa ever tell you about Lirath?”

“Your younger brother,” Jaina nodded. “He died around the time of the Second War.”

“He was a joy to be around, very much like Anduin,” Sylvanas said, a secretive smile on her lips. “How we danced and danced to his songs. I so looked forward to training him to join the Farstriders… then the orcs killed him in one of their raids.

“Alleria was filled with rage – she tore off after any orc she could find. She’d disappear for weeks, hunting down groups and wiping them out. It was…” Sylvanas grinned up at the ceiling. “It was glorious, if I’m being honest. That solidified my resolve to be like my sister. I’d never seen anything quite so terrible and beautiful.” Her gaze lowered again to Jaina. “I imagine you made just as imperious an image, marching on Orgrimmar with an ocean’s worth of water elementals at your back.”

Jaina cleared her throat – as close as she could manage – and looked away. “I don’t know if I’d have looked quite as righteous as your sister avenging her fallen brother. I rather imagine I looked like quite the monster.”

“No,” Sylvanas agreed. “Not righteous. Likely quite terrible – but no less magnificent. Much like you were in our fight on that island.”

Jaina found no words to answer that rather disturbing sentiment, so she remained silent and let Sylvanas reminisce. 

Violent behaviour excited Sylvanas; that was the very last thing she’d ever wanted to know.

Eventually the pastries ran out, and Sylvanas resembled her more dour self. 

“Jaina, I need to ask you for transport,” she began. “It is time I left correspondence for Nathanos.”

Jaina nodded, producing paper and a pen from her storage. “Where are we leaving this?”

“There is a dead drop for coded messages in Dalaran,” Sylvanas said, penning her missive in the angled, loopy cursive Thalassian. She stopped, eyeing Jaina darkly, before resuming. “I suppose I cannot stop you from reading as I write,” she sighed. “I imagine that other intelligence has been intercepted, so what’s one more?”

Jaina chuckled. “Kael’thas long ago assured that my Thalassian was spot on,” she said, switching to the language in question. "I can’t think of a single conversation we had in the first couple years I knew him where he didn’t correct me.”

“Oh, thank the stars,” Sylvanas sighed dramatically, speaking Thalassian herself. “We can speak in a civilized tongue. You’re stuck now – I’ll not indulge cruder languages if I don’t have to.” Sylvanas paused to look at Jaina again. “I’d actually forgotten that you knew him. You were close?”

“Close,” Jaina snickered. “Kael was after me to the point where he and Arthas nearly came to blows.”

Sylvanas snorted with laughter. “That whore of a man. Well then, we have two men in common, Jaina. Arthas aside, Kael’thas pursued me for a time, too.”

“I can imagine – oh!” Jaina blinked in realization. “He must have been so annoyed to lose us both to human lovers.”

“Oh, he was.” Sylvanas nodded. “He was, indeed.” Tapping her pen against her lips, she regarded the mage again. Then she signed her note in a flourish and sat back.

“After we deliver this, we should speak of our bargain. I’d like to know your ideas.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

Amongst the spires of Dalaran, a lone blood elf mage wandered along the street. Anya trailed behind him at a fair distance, her past as a Farstrider and present as a Dark Ranger left her all but invisible except to those who she wished to notice her. She lacked the invisibility of the mages here, but her knack with disguises meant that the street crowd saw her merely as one of them; unimportant and uninteresting. The elven stranger she tailed would cause more of a stir.

The unknown sin’dorei ducked into a small trinket shop – harmless on its surface, unless one knew that the shop was a front for Horde intelligence operations in Dalaran. Now that was more than just unusual – that could easily be a threat.

She reached the shop just a moment later and entered quietly to see the man place a note in the ‘Special Requests’ box near the shop keep. When the shopkeeper, also an elf, raised her brow and ears in interest, the man waved her off – the specific gesture used was the current nonverbal password for an intelligence drop. The shopkeeper nodded her head, her ears carefully going neutral again. 

His drop finished, the man left quickly. Anya did not bother to exit the shop to follow; instead, she approached the box, identifying herself with the same gestures. She took the note form the box, glancing at the intended recipient, and took her leave immediately.

Her street patrol did not end for four hours yet, but Orders from the Warchief took precedence. As quickly as an unimportant person might manage, Anya headed for the portal to Orgrimmar.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Jaina brought them back to her sitting room, after doubling back from the outskirts of Orgrimmar to Theramore. Sylvanas noted with approval the security steps the archmage took. With luck, today’s discussion would give her a plan of action, and a better idea of the scope of Jaina’s hopes. While Sylvanas could see the potential in excluding Kul-Tiras from her offensive, she would need some from of reciprocation – trade, most likely.

“There we go,” Jaina said as her magics removed the sin’dorei illusion, leaving Sylvanas looking once more like the Lord Admiral she wasn’t. “We should head to my office. We can talk while I put together an acceptance speech and a eulogy or two.”

“Ah, such fun,” Sylvanas said, not masking her distaste. “I have little patience for speeches – all that pomp and wordplay; easily the least enjoyable aspect of leadership.”

“Well, you wanted to be Warchief.” Jaina’ voice began to drift down the private corridor between her rooms, and Sylvanas followed.

“Ha! Vol’jin pointed at me and then died. I am Warchief because ‘the sprits said so,’ if you believe that.”

“The last time I heard those words, it was when Thrall chose Garrosh.” Jaina’s voice held a note of the rage that Sylvanas knew well – the rage she constantly expected Jaina to aim at her, despite their current calm. Still, best not to tempt fate.

“And yet, you have saved my life and I am willing to negotiate with you, Lord Admiral. Is that not already better?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Well—” Sylvanas went silent as she opened the door to Jaina’s office. 

They were not alone. There, waiting in the Lord Admiral’s office, were her sisters, Alleria and Vereesa.

Vereesa rushed forward and clamped her arms around Sylvanas, squeezing tightly. Sylvanas carefully put her arms around—

“Jaina, what have you done?! Are you alright? What – how – where … I – I don’t… why?”

Sylvanas let her arms drop as her heart lurched hard enough, she swore it skipped a beat. Vereesa thought—

“Vereesa…” Alleria began. In the corner of her eye, she saw Jaina reform her illusion. 

“Hello, sister,” Sylvanas said, letting her native tongue and accent speak for themselves.

Vereesa’s head snapped up, wide eyes staring for a split-second at red eyes she’d expected to be blue. She jumped back as if stung, staring at Alleria, then her, then over to Jaina; then back and forth between both Jainas.

Sylvanas clenched her fists as tight as she could to stop her arms from shaking, letting her nails dig into her palms. Already, her eyes stung with forming tears, and she suddenly wished desperately to once again be dead. Her breath came in harsh gasps she strained to keep quiet. 

“Sylvanas, how…?” Vereesa turned to Alleria. “You told me Jaina was fine! What am I looking at, here?”

“‘Jaina’ is over here,” the mage deadpanned, drawing Vereesa’s attention to her illusion. More might have been said, but Sylvanas’ world quickly shrunk to her desperate struggle to control her body. 

She would not cry. She would not be weak. Just because this body had the function did not mean she should indulge it. She would not show her sisters and a currently compliant enemy how profoundly painful it was to be rejected out-of-hand. 

She would not cry. The tiny remaining fragments of her heart conspired against her with a completely illogical comparison: That just this morning the boy king had touched her and held her so openly and easily and now her sister shied away in revulsion. Anduin’s concern and affection hadn’t been for her, but oh, how wonderful and freeing it had felt; and Vereesa’s first concern was for her friend, not her evil sister. Of course, it was. How stupid and naïve was she to expect otherwise? But the moment she knew who she held, she let go. 

She would not cry. She had endured worse than this. She would take the trite explanations of surprise and confusion at face value and carry on. She would still her shaking body. She would force herself to speak through this immense, painful lump that held her throat hostage. 

She would not cry. 

She would not—

The first whimper escaped her control, but not fast enough that she couldn’t clamp her hands around her mouth to shield it. As it was, papers flew from Jaina’s desk across the table. 

“Oh, shit,” she heard someone – Jaina? – say. She couldn’t see through the tears that fell; she’d abandoned that battle to focus on controlling her voice. She would not – she _could not_ cry. Fuck her heartless sister, her secrecy and _existence_ were on the line if she demolished a wall because of a childish outburst. She—

“Hold on,” Jaina said, her voice nearby. Power surged within her, and then glare of the noon sun replaced the shade of the office. Wind rustled her hair, causing her to gasp and nearly choke as she repressed a violent surge of grief.

“You’re alone,” Jaina soothed, now behind her. “No one will hear. No one can be hurt, Sylvanas.”

Stubbornly, she shook her head as she nearly lost control again. Through watery eyes, she watched the grasses in front of her sway with the force of her voice.

“Let go, Sylvanas. You have to let go.”

_I don’t—_

But the instant she opened her mouth to respond, the gates burst. A painful, strangled shout tore up the ground in front of her, draining the air from her lungs as they compressed painfully, trying to squeeze still more air from the void within – a terrible wracking ache underpinned by the thumping of her broken, bleeding heart. 

With a wretched gasp, she sucked in a breath, and the first true wail struck. A wall of emotional force escaped her, the damage done invisible behind her tears as they raced down her cheeks. She gripped her stomach reflexively as her gut burned, even as she took a second gulping breath and screamed again; and again; and again.

Pain. Loss. Desperation. Fear. Death. Anger. Rage. Hate. No compassion. No support. No family. No friends. No people. No identity. No gratitude. No home. 

Nothing.

Her legs gave out and she dropped to her knees, screams dying off into powerful, heaving sobs. Vereesa’s all-too-honest reaction was an apt representation of her entire life, from the moment she’d been killed defending Silvermoon to this very moment. Everything that had held meaning to her was ash. Her bonds with her fellow Forsaken were formed exactly of that – bonds of ash, a shared effort shovelling the same damned shit pile.

Even Nathanos, who she trusted most out of anyone, based his loyalty and devotion on a memory buried in the shadows and pain. He did not love her; he loved who she had been – and she could not blame him. She loved the man he once was, too. 

How pathetic and awful it felt that her enemies now showed her greater decency than those she led and defended. Jaina, whose body she inhabited and who hovered behind her, still, could – _and should_ – snuff her out this instant and instead watched over her in her weakness, threading fingers through her hair in an awkward attempt to console her.

And Anduin, naïve, stupid, trusting boy that he was, who had reached for her freely the way her brother, Lirath, once did so many, many years ago.

When she was alive. When she had family. When she had been happy.

So, she cried: Wordless anguish, mourning the days when her sisters did not flinch from her touch.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Jaina brought them directly to her bedroom once Sylvanas had cried herself out. She guided the banshee over to her reading chair by the hearth, where Sylvanas dropped listlessly, rubbing her face with both hands and trying to be invisible. Jaina dutifully ignored her embarrassment, hoping that a steady tiller would help steer past this into a better evening.

“What an absolute mess,” Sylvanas whispered through her fingers. “Of all the things that could have happened…”

“Mm.” Jaina quickly conjured a cup of steaming tea. Reaching into her spatial pocket, she pulled out a small jar of leaves. She tried twice to open the jar by hand, but her illusion lacked the strength. 

Sighing, she handed the jar to Sylvanas. “Could you open this, please?”

Sylvanas wordlessly popped the lid off and handed it back. Jaina pulled out a sprig of Dreamfoil and dropped it in the tea, stirring it in by its stem. She stirred for a minute, then – lacking the ability to smell the tea – she stirred an extra minute for good measure.

“Here,” she said, placing the tea on the end table beside Sylvanas. “If it’s too bitter, I can conjure up some honey to stir in.”

Sylvanas frowned, eyeing the tea skeptically. “What is this you’re giving me?”

“A nice, calming tea.” Jaina nudged the sprig of Dreamfoil. “This is one of the ingredients in that Dreamless Sleep potion you took last night. Stirring it into my tea makes it a mild sedative. It isn’t strong enough to make you sleepy, but it does take the edge off things.”

“Ah, I see.” Sylvanas chuckled as she picked up the tea. “You’re drugging me. Probably a wise choice.” She took a small sip and put it down quickly with a sour look on her face. “I’ll take you up on that honey. How can you possibly drink this?”

“With honey.” Jaina smirked and conjured a small jar of honey and spoon. Sylvanas wasted no time scooping a giant spoonful of honey into the cup, tossing the Dreamfoil into the hearth. 

“I discovered this shortly after becoming Grand Magus of Dalaran. Theramore’s destruction was new and painful, and I needed something to keep from snapping every time Sunreaver opened his mouth. I’d already begun using Dreamless Sleep potions on and off for obvious reasons, so I experimented with the raw ingredients. I found that this was enough… if I had a cup or two throughout the day, not only was I not a raging bitch, but the nightmares eased off, too.”

Sylvanas nodded, sipping her much sweeter tea. “And now, I’d imagine you’re addicted.”

“Addicted…” Jaina hemmed and hawed a moment before nodding. “I suppose. I usually end up with a pounding headache if I haven’t had my morning cup. But you took the full potion last night, so…”

“Of course.”

Jaina let Sylvanas drink in silence, mulling over her options. Clearly, the sisters had things to discuss – and just as clearly, Sylvanas was more vulnerable than she was used to. She’d been counting on Alleria and Vereesa to be an anchor for their sister, something to keep her balanced, calm and cooperative. How ironic that she, the outsider, would end up playing mediator.

Would Vereesa play nicely? Clearly, Alleria was already on-board with her efforts. That had a lot to do with the island battle, though. Still, she’d looked horrified at Sylvanas’ breakdown just as they’d teleported away. 

Perhaps she should prepare more tea. Yes, that was a sound plan: Sedatives for everyone.

“We should rejoin my sisters,” Sylvanas said, making to stand. 

Jaina interposed herself, touching her shoulder. “Finish your tea. They can wait another minute or two.”

“I’m not made of glass, Jaina.” Sylvanas snarled, but she sat back and sipped her drink.

“Let the effects kick in, and then we’ll go.” Jaina quickly scribbled a note and sent it off with a spell. “There. Let’s do something else, rather than just sit in that room and grasp for conversation. You all enjoy riding, don’t you?”

Sylvanas nodded. “A ranger’s life lends to that, yes.” 

“Then when you finish, we’ll collect the others and do just that.”

While Sylvanas finished off her tea as quickly as the hot liquid permitted, Jaina quickly conjured an entire pot’s worth, dividing the whole thing into three travelling flasks and dropping Dreamfoil sprigs inside. 

She would solve this unforeseen obstacle with a diplomat’s greatest tools: Distraction and redirection. 

And tea.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Blightcaller,” Anya called as she approached the throne in Grommash Hold. “I have something for you.”

“I am here,” Nathanos answered, striding from the entry to the Warchief’s quarters. “What is it?”

Anya tossed him the letter she’d retrieved. “Warchief’s orders. I gather she’s afield, then?”

Nathanos opened his mouth to reply, but paused – what would work here? He glanced behind Anya, finding them alone for the moment; only the Dark Ranger could hear him, and they were the most trusted of his Queen’s people. 

“A temporary outing,” he said softly. “She is testing her body to ensure the damage has been removed. For all intents and purposes, she is still resting and unavailable. Tell no one.”

“Very well.” Anya turned to leave.

“Hold a moment.” Nathanos broke open the letter. “I may need a reply dropped at the same location.”

Anya’s ears turned forward in interest, her eyes narrowed in thought. “A reply? To the Warchief?”

“Not the Warchief,” Nathanos scoffed. “Just wait.”

Anya continued to eye him, her ears now folded back in annoyance. He paid her no mind and read.

_Nathanos,_

_All proceeds well. Leave replies through the same drop box. Tell me the status of my recovery. Schedule a leadership meeting as soon as practical and inform me of the time, so that I may keep up appearances. Proudmoore’s illusions should hold though any scrutiny. If necessary, approach First Arcanist Thalyssra for assistance, as she is new to the Horde and least affected by past politics. She is also the least unfriendly to Proudmoore and cooperated with us on the island._

_Proudmoore will no doubt use the meeting to collect intelligence on current Horde events. This is an acceptable trade, as I expect to attend an Alliance leadership meeting in two days’ time._

_The following page is a list of notable people in Stormwind that we might approach to help destabilize the kingdom. Inform our spies, but do not act on this until I return._

_Keep all existing war efforts on schedule, including those targeting Kul-Tiras. If pressed for resources, prioritize mainland strikes._

_I await confirmation and an update on my body._

_Sylvanas_

She was alive. She was still alive. 

Nathanos allowed himself a true, deep breath. It held a mere fraction of the satisfaction a living body might feel, but it would suffice – a large weight shifted from his shoulders. A line of communication meant that the Warchief could once again be active, and – with Proudmoore’s aid – even present in short stints. 

A path forward at last.

Nathanos glanced at the second page, then rolled up the papers. “I will be only a moment with the reply,” he said. 

Anya said nothing, the tapping of her foot the only noise.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Vereesa hastily tied her silvery hair back into a ponytail before mounting the great beast before her. Kul-Tiran Chargers were to Thalassian Chargers as humans were to elves – larger, bulkier, and somewhat taller. She felt like a little girl again astride this monster; her feet barely reached the stirrups, and they were set as high as they could be.

Alleria seemed equally out of place. Jaina – _Sylvanas_ – was the only one who looked remotely comfortable, if unhappy. 

Vereesa turned her gaze to the fields beyond the portal. She carefully urged her steed forward; apparently the horses of House Proudmoore were well-used to Jaina, as they all happily trotted through the magic, adjusting to their new location, Stormsong Valley to the north, with nothing more than a snort and a head shake. 

He tried her best to keep her ears raised and her face, if not cheerful, at least neutral. Once the portal closed, Jaina herself appeared beside her as an illusory duplicate, complete with mount. 

“Your horses are beautiful,” Vereesa said, eager to start a conversation, even pointless small talk, to keep her mind off Sylvanas.

“Thank you,” Jaina said levelly; and Vereesa’s ears fell alongside her heart. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to do… well, that. I just – I missed you, and you were there, and Alleria told me—”

“I know,” Jaina interrupted. “I don’t expect that you could have acted any differently, but here we are.” Jaina glanced over at the others, then back to her. “I’d love to hear all about your boys, or whatever the gossip is in Dalaran these days. I want nothing more than to just sit and drink with you over a game of dice, like we used to.”

“I’d like that, too,” Vereesa said, her throat tight. “I can’t tell you how lonely it feels in that city with you gone.”

Jaina snorted. “Yes, well… Blame Khadgar for that one.”

“He’s sorry, you know,” Vereesa said. “He’s told me that a couple of times, probably hoping I’d tell you.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Not for letting the Horde back in,” Vereesa shook her head. “For just dropping it on you like that. He swore that if he could, he’d go back and try something different.”

Jaina frowned at her. Soon, her scowl softened to confusion; then she burst into laughter. “I know why he’s apologizing! He doesn’t want to do the paperwork!”

“That’s an … odd conclusion.”

“Khadgar’s an odd man.” Jaina winked. “Also, the last few trade reports show Dalaran's export pricing in a slump, and an unusual skew in tariffs and material orders.” She gestured, “Now you ask…”

“What specific, intriguing thing does that information tell you?” Vereesa asked dutifully.

“It tells me that Khadgar has no idea how to administrate,” Jaina said smugly. “Cleaning up that kind of bureaucratic shit when I was Grand Magus probably outstrips my research papers in terms of contribution to the city. Now, all the thieves and liars are back for their cut.”

“Ah,” Vereesa said, her tone playfully accusing. “So, you had a fit and left my home to rot, eh Proudmoore?”

Jaina flipped her off. “Fuck you, I’m home.” She swept her hands around at the fields and forest behind it. “You tell me that if you had a chance to hug your mother again every morning, that you’d give it up for anything.”

Vereesa’s head shook back and forth before Jaina finished speaking. “Nothing. Nothing could convince me to give up such a gift.”

“So, Khadgar’s fucked.”

“I agree. Poor Khadgar.”

“Poor Khadgar.” Jaina smirked. “Good for Kul-Tiran trade, though.”

“Jaina!”

\---== {(0)} ==---

“They truly are friends,” Sylvanas muttered to Alleria. They rode a few horse lengths back from her younger sister as she bickered with the image of her friend.

“So, it seems,” Alleria nodded. “I’ve seen little of them together, but Vereesa’s twins call her ‘aunt’ in the same manner that King Anduin does.”

“How interesting that she collects the children of others rather than birthing her own.”

Alleria arched an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk, sister.”

“Granted.” Sylvanas shrugged, amused. “But I collect everyone, not just children.”

“That’s despicable beyond words, Sylvanas.”

“Says the woman who swallowed a Dark Star and became a living shadow.”

“I did what I had to do to survive!” Alleria snarled, her teeth bared and her ears fully back.

“As do I,” Sylvanas smirked, truly enjoying the ability to look down on her sister from Jaina’s greater height.

“I would take your fate gladly over mine! I endured centuries of struggle! Torture at the hands of demons! Imprisonment by my own damned husband! All you did was die!”

“Yes, dying is so simple,” Sylvanas growled, rage and grief tearing at her again – would _both_ sisters break her today? “At least your ordeal is _over_ , Alleria. At least you have a husband and son to—”

“Neither of whom can touch me!”

_What?_ Surprise ate away at her anger. What could cause such an extreme reaction? 

Alleria looked away, her ears easing back up. “Arator… somewhat. Turalyon outright hurts me when we make contact. I likely hurt them both in return. I am a creature of the void, now. Those strongly aligned to the Light are painful to me.”

Sylvanas struggled to find words to reply. A great part of her wished nothing more than to lash out until her sister was as ruined as she had been earlier today. The rational sliver still in play, however, urged silence.

Jaina took that moment to interrupt, springing into appearance between them. “Drink your tea, both of you. Enough fighting.” She looked at Sylvanas. “Go talk to your other sister,” she ordered. “We’re switching off.”

Sylvanas bristled at the order, but her horse – clearly prodded by a spell – trotted forward on its own. With a deep breath that did nothing whatsoever to calm her, she led her mare towards Vereesa.

And she took a swig of her damned tea.

“I’m sorry,” Vereesa started immediately once they were fully abreast. 

“Yes, I imagine you are,” Sylvanas replied, nodding. “‘I’m sorry’ is becoming a common phrase with you, Little Moon.”

“I … I don’t know what to say with you,” Vereesa said, flicking an ear in frustration. “I love you, you’re my sister, you were my hero… But now you’re Warchief of the Horde, and your actions are appalling. How am I supposed to reconcile these things, Sylvanas?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Sylvanas said, shrugging. “I gave up reconciling my life when I was forced to huddle in the ruins of Lordaeron with the other dead.”

“But why the Horde?”

“Because they answered,” Sylvanas said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Because there were plenty of adventurers and organizations eager to destroy the undead, and a great number of my Forsaken cannot truly fight. I sent to every leader I could – most of the time, my messengers were killed outright. Only the Horde – specifically the Tauren – felt inclined to agree.”

Vereesa frowned at the information, glancing back towards Jaina, chatting quietly with Alleria. 

“No,” Sylvanas answered the question she anticipated. “I did not send to Jaina. I did not know her and saw no real advantage in her small city-state and its equally small military with the ocean between us. We needed allies of some significant strength.”

“But—”

“In hindsight,” Sylvanas continued, nodding, “I should have. In hindsight, it was foolish not to engage the Alliance’s top diplomat – and the Warchief’s close friend – in negotiations. I have absolutely no doubt she would have lobbied for our inclusion to the Alliance – and failing that, at least would have won us more initial trust from Thrall.”

“That’s… generous of you.” Vereesa said, seeming surprised.

“I owe her my life and depend upon her for my continued existence,” Sylvanas said, giving her a pointed look. “I’m inclined to be generous.” 

“I feel foolish,” Vereesa said after a moment. “It took me until the mess in Pandaria to realize where you were – that you were even alive. By then, Jaina was … no longer charitable to the Horde. If I had known sooner…”

“Ah, yes. Jaina could have reached me through Thrall. That would have been preferable, I agree.”

“I wish we could simply be, sister. I wish…” Vereesa sniffed and rubbed at her eyes. “I want my family back. And I need to fix something.”

Sylvanas opened her mouth, but Vereesa surprised her, springing nimbly from her own horse to land in the saddle behind Sylvanas. Strong, slender arms came around her from behind, squeezing tightly—

“I’m glad you’re alive, Sylvanas. I’m happy to see you.”

—and again, Sylvanas found herself both quietly surprised, and fighting back tears.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Taelia knocked gently at the door. She knew the Lord Admiral was in her office late tonight – something about speeches, Lady Katherine had told her. Despite that, she sincerely hoped that Lady Jaina would have the time to make good on her offer to talk.

When she’d stopped by earlier, she’d seen Lady Jaina riding off with a pair of elves, chatting away in their melodic tongue the entire time. Taelia hadn’t learned any elven language yet, but she had a solid grip on Dwarven and a fair bit of Gnomish under her belt. 

Of course, Lady Jaina knew them all – Dwarven, Gnomish, Darnassian, Draenei, even Pandaren and Thalassian… people even said she knew Orcish! That she spoke the tongue of dragons!

What it must be like to break bread with a being like a dragon… to discuss matters of global importance with the same casual manner one might speak of the weather…

Taelia shook herself from her daydream as she waited for a response. She heard muted whispers, almost as if Jaina were talking to herself. Practising her speech, perhaps?

Then the whispering stopped. “Come in,” came Jaina’s voice, loud and sure.

Taelia poked her head in the door. “Lady Jaina? Do you have a moment?”

“Of course,” Jaina said politely, folding her hands in front of her. “I take it you’ve come for answers?”

“I have, ma’am.” Taelia walked in and sat down as Jaina waved her towards a chair. “Anything you have to tell me – just … anything. I’d love to know.”

“You won’t.” Jaina shook her head. In the corner of the room, her staff’s large crystal glowed an eerie green, and a bottle of rum appeared on the Lord Admiral’s desk, along with a pair of drinking glasses.

“Here,” Jaina said, pouring her a healthy glass. “Let’s drink to the dead, and I’ll tell you a very unhappy tale.”

Taelia took the glass hesitantly, suddenly apprehensive. The shadows in the office were long, flickering in the dying light of the hearth. The look in Jaina’s eyes was not the proud, dignified woman she knew. She was at once a scared young woman, and a tired, scarred warrior – and Taelia suddenly questioned if adventures and heroics were perhaps not worth the price on the tag.

But she tapped her glass against the Lord Admiral’s and choked down the strong alcohol. 

And the tale began.

\---== {(0)} ==---

A jagged, desperate portal tore open in the depths of the ocean, and Azshara forced herself through. She closed it a touch quicker than advisable – she lost two feet of her longest tentacle – but several undead arms, most holding weapons, floated gently to the bottom in the space where the portal once was.

Instantly, her servants attended her. Magic soothed her innumerable injuries, gentle hands pried away what little remained of her armor, and her Favourite soon appeared before her to administer soothing kisses and soft, comforting words.

“My Queen,” came a voice to her side. Hands tugged delicately against the item she held, asking her to relinquish it. 

Should she? It was rather hard-won. 

No. Well, yes. Maybe. With effort, she flexed her hand open, allowing the object to sink.

“Leave it,” she warned, her voice hoarse and tired. “Terrible magics reside within – terrible magics that are mine alone to study.”

Murmurs of agreement followed, and Azshara once again allowed herself to be pampered. After such a protracted battle, the very thought of having to discipline her worshippers was appalling. She had neither the mana nor the stamina to dismember a single additional creature today. 

No, she carefully wrapped her many healing limbs around her Favourite, drawing her in close. Now was the time for healing and pleasure, and her servants were always useful for both. 

Below her, the jagged helm of the Lich King dug into the sea bed, gazing ominously at the abyss before it.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sunlight. Death Knights. The chill air across his face. The scraping of metal against ice. He was being dragged.

“Stop,” he whispered, his voice a ragged wheeze. The knights obeyed instantly, releasing him. He was…

Where was he?

Why was there ice?

Why did these … things … obey him?

He glanced down at his hands – the thick, sharp-edged armor, the burnt, broken skin that bled unnaturally bright fire. He was … important. A sacrifice. He remembered that. He remembered… what else? Something bright. 

“My shining star,” he said, the words familiar. Almost as familiar as…

“Taelia. Taelia, my daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy every single one of your comments. Please take the time to let me know how you like the story! 
> 
> Next up, some algebra: 
> 
> Stormwind + Orgrimmar + Dalaran + Kalec + Thrall = [(Jaina )(Sylvanas)/(Nathanos + Thalyssra)][1/2][ Lich King - Azshara]. 
> 
> Solve for Jaina.


	6. I'm Listening Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday! If not... I hope you made a killing in overtime!
> 
> This chapter needed hammering, then whipping, but it finally took shape - and if it's a touch indulgent in some areas... well, consider it my Christmas present to myself.
> 
> Now... time to begin the numerous plot threads we can roughly describe as 'consequences...'

Thank you,” Taelia sniffed, wiping her eyes. “I… I don’t know what to think…”

“I’m sorry,” Jaina said sadly; Sylvanas reached out to squeeze the young woman’s shoulder. “I wish I could return your father to you intact; the truth is, we owe him a great deal for continuing to keep the dead in check.”

“I suppose that I wasn’t lied to after all,” Taelia mumbled bitterly. “They just left out the part where he was still moving around.”

“Oh, Taelia…”

“No, I’m fine — that is, I will be.” Taelia reached out, clasping Sylvanas’ hands. “It really changes nothing. But at least I know why Alliance people give such a start at my name.” She took a deep breath, then stepped back.

“Thank you,” she said again. “I’ll do my best to live up to my father’s legacy and sense of duty – the official and unofficial versions. With your leave, I’ll wish you a good night, Lady Jaina.”

“Have a good night, Taelia,” Jaina replied softly. “Please try to sleep.”

“I will. Good night, ma’am.”

As Taelia walked off, Sylvanas closed the door and wandered over to the chair Taelia had just vacated. 

“That was pleasant,” she said in Thalassian as she collapsed into it, stretching out. Jaina’s illusory form appeared behind the desk, where she once again took up her pen.

“Perhaps the alcohol was." The mage switched languages, while already penning the next line in her speech. “I’d rather forget the whole thing. Poor girl…”

“I suppose you’ve been where she is,” Sylvanas mused, gazing out the window at the moon rising across the harbor. “With a loved one on that throne, I mean.”

“My ‘loved one’ was already lost.” Jaina closed her eyes. “But I hadn’t understood that yet… or at least, I hadn’t believed it.”

“Bolvar is also lost,” Sylvanas warned, a spark of concern rising. Jaina was … acceptable company, at the least. A powerful ally, she dared to hope. Losing her to some pointless crusade on behalf of that girl…

“Oh, I know.” The mage waved her off, much to her relief. “I have no doubt that, at some point, we’re going to have to beat back the Scourge yet again. But Bolvar took that throne while still of sound mind – more or less. That hopefully gives us more time.”

“Perhaps.” Sylvanas steepled her fingers and pondered while Jaina’s pen scratched away. “Do you think your little stunt might have kicked over the hornet’s nest?”

“I hope not, but my options weren't great. There were only three places I could think of: Violet Hold in Dalaran, the Nexus in Coldarra, and Icecrown. The first would have failed almost immediately and caused all sorts of fatalities.”

“And they'd be crying for your blood.”

“Without a doubt. The second would have held a fair bit longer. But it would have also given Azshara access to artifacts of the Blue Dragon flight. It likely would have killed several dragons as well.”

“An unacceptable loss,” Sylvanas agreed. “The dragons’ treasures and goodwill are worth this level of risk. Dalaran was an inferior choice no matter how you look at it.” She shrugged, “In the end, you made the correct decision.”

“Thank you,” Jaina said, smiling at her. Sylvanas smiled back, pleased with herself. 

Soon, Jaina pronounced herself done. Sylvanas put herself through evening ablutions and prepared for bed.

\---== {(0)} ==---

A knock sounded on the office door, and Alleria showed herself in.

“Am I to assume that my sister is sleeping?” she asked as she sat down in front of the desk.

“She is,” Jaina confirmed, sliding a scroll across to the ranger. “I wish to ask a favor that involves covert operations, which is not something she needs to know about.”

“I see.” Alleria unfurled the paper and scanned through its contents.

“Sylvanas has her Dark Rangers skulking about, and SI:7 has agents all over the Alliance and Horde. I need a similar body of people for Kul-Tiras. I’m hoping that you have access to individuals that might be interested in such employment.”

“I do,” Alleria nodded. “Several rangers and hunters, a fair number of mages, and others with skills suited to this sort of work.” A dark grin rose on her face. “What would you like done?”

“Watching more than anything, at the moment. More aggressive moves can come later.” Jaina indicated the sheet. “Those are names and places I’m aware of; there might be more. I know there are Horde spies and I suspect that Ashvane still has sympathizers. Who knows what else has cropped up these last years, too.” With a shrug, Jaina turned to look out the window. "I don't know my homeland like I used to... and definitely not like I need to."

“I’ll help,” Alleria assured her. “I owe you my life, after all – and my sister’s. I have to ask, though – why me? You're well-liked and well-connected. You could have your pick of Alliance resources for this.”

“But that would mean tipping off SI:7…”

“…And you wish Stormwind intelligence to remain uninformed,” Alleria finished. 

“If I’m going to lead this nation, then I need to put a lid on allied interference, too. I love Anduin like family, and I trust Stormwind to act in my general interests. But they won’t put Kul-Tiras first the way I’d need them to. 

"But your people are new to the Alliance, and likely don’t have deep ties – not for work in intelligence, at any rate.”

“True.” Alleria stood. “I’ll pick from those I know with certainty haven’t made any friends or contacts yet; fresh faces. I should have them in place by tomorrow night, give or take… report by the end of the week?”

“Sometime after I’m done with Sylvanas,” Jaina agreed. “I can’t solve every single problem at once – though it would be nice.”

They shared a laugh, and Alleria saw herself out. Jaina focused and moved her illusion and senses to her room.

Sylvanas was awake, her forehead creased with worry. Crimson eyes gazed out the window, staring at the dark horizon.

“Why are you up?” Jaina asked, walking over. “You were sound asleep…”

“I felt you leave,” Sylvanas replied, her brow furrowed. “I felt you – your spells – they grew distant. I wondered… but I imagine you’d have woken me if you needed me.” She caught Jaina’s eye for a moment, then looked away again. “It’s likely nothing – a side effect of today’s little drama,” she dismissed. 

Jaina took a moment to collect herself. It sounded almost as if Sylvanas had missed her… at least somewhat.

“I’m sorry,” Jaina said, climbing up onto the bed to sit beside her. “I had a meeting with someone to go over intelligence reports. I hope you understand…”

“Ah,” Sylvanas said, straightening. “I do understand. I would insist on the same.”

“Well, since you can sense my proximity—”

“—This works well for our inevitable appearance in Orgrimmar,” Sylvanas agreed. “I apologize; today’s events still have me on edge, I suppose.”

“Rest,” Jaina urged. “I’ll stay here with you for now.”

“I’m sure you could find—”

Jaina carded her fingers through Sylvanas’ hair much like she did earlier in the day. Crimson eyes fluttered closed as Sylvanas leaned into the touch. She laid back down without complaint, adjusting herself under the covers.

“I know we’re not exactly friends,” Jaina began, “but I can offer you some comfort at least.”

“Jaina…” A great silence followed, as Jaina continued to stroke her hair. “You must realize,” she continued, “that aside from Nathanos, I have no one? You … whatever this is … is the closest thing I have to a friend.”

Jaina’s hand, being a function of spellwork, never wavered. But words failed her completely – how could Sylvanas make such a horrifying claim? “Your sisters—”

“My sisters would not do this for me,” Sylvanas denied, her voice harsh. “They would have mourned me, but this – to attempt to save me…” She shifted, turning her face away. “Alleria could not have even if she’d wanted to. Vereesa… no. She would not endanger her children so. They are more important to her than I am.”

Sylvanas squeezed her eyes tight against the painful memory. Jaina felt for her; This was a story for which Jaina knew the other side. But Sylvanas needed comfort more than Vereesa needed defending.

“Rest, Sylvanas,” she soothed. “I’m here, as much as I can be.”

As minutes ticked by, Sylvanas calmed and drifted off to sleep. Jaina set commands for her illusion to keep stroking Sylvanas' hair for ten minutes. Then she'd assume a normal sleep position. 

She fell into one of her meditation exercises to give Sylvanas some time with her near. Afterwards, she would move over to her desk to finalize plans for a new set of equipment. Stormwind loomed in their future. She’d need more than her backup staff and Sylvanas' acting skills to hide the Warchief there.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Northern outposts all report quiet, my liege.”

“Thank you,” Anduin said, bowing his head forward. “Is there anything else, High Exarch?”

“There is not, sir,” the paladin replied with a slight shake of his head. “With your leave, I’ll return to my duties.”

Leaving the king’s office and striding past several snooping courtiers, Turalyon made for the main gate, slowing only as he spotted his wife talking with another of her so-called ‘void elves.’   
Unease warred with pity in his heart. Most of these Ren’dorei were victims; they did not choose the void. Rather, it was inflicted upon them. Much the same as Alleria, he supposed, though Alleria chose afterwards to embrace it fully.

Light’s grace, she scared him. He loved her with every ounce of his being, but the shadows that crawled in her eyes and beneath her skin haunted his nightmares. 

Once, his allegiances required him to act against her. Never again, he vowed – he wanted to vow… 

But the Light abhorred the Shadows. 

How long before the void consumed her utterly and left only a monster. How long before he was forced to kill the woman he loved so dearly?

No. He shook his head, dismissing his thoughts. They were home, on Azeroth. Here, the Grand Army of the Light had no official jurisdiction. Here, Alleria was free, a citizen of the Alliance just as he was. Here, the High King had welcomed the Ren’dorei as allies.

Here, they did not need to fight.

…Until the day they did.

_Enough._

He noticed the conversation ending and approached as the other elf took his leave. “Alleria,” he called, smiling. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Good morning, Turalyon,” Alleria said, leaning up to kiss him lightly.

Both winced slightly, fighting against the spasm of pain.

“So tiresome,” Alleria whispered, leaning into her husband’s embrace – carefully, both ensuring that armor contacted armor, and nothing more.

“I will spend the next eternity apologizing for failing you,” Turalyon murmured near her ear. “My love for you is eternal.”

Alleria was silent for a moment, closing her eyes. “As is mine,” she confirmed.

Turalyon’s heart strained at that silence – that instant of time his wife now required to answer. This was his penance, his punishment, and the constant reminder of what loomed ahead.

He would endure. He would love her until the day it ended – and forever after, as well. Merciful Light, he felt that day looming; the helpless, formless panic that he could not quell. 

They should talk. Discuss; situate themselves as a family. Make the best of every single remaining day and week and month. He should move here, somewhere normal and accessible, to accommodate his family.

“Do you have time for breakfast?” he asked instead, coward that he was. “We could frequent that old inn we used to.”

Alleria smiled indulgently. “Of course, dearest. I’d love to.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

Valeera let herself in silently as Turalyon left. Anduin smiled at her, then returned his gaze to the report in front of him.

“The Warchief is still incapacitated,” she began without preamble. “The various leaders are gathering for a meeting the day after tomorrow in the evening, at her request. That places it well after our own ceremonies and meetings.”

“Enough time that you could make it back?”

Valeera nodded. “I’ll have someone in place to hear whispers and rumors. The proceedings aren’t usually under much secrecy, and I doubt that’s changed.”

“Except the silence on Sylvanas Windrunner,” Anduin pointed out. 

They paused a moment as one of the kitchen staff delivered Anduin his evening meal; he left quickly, promising Valeera a plateful of food. They waited a moment after the door clicked shut to continue.

“Nathanos speaks to no one but the Dark Rangers and one of the Val’kyr,” she explained. “Clearly, Azshara dealt her a crippling blow. It remains to be seen exactly how crippling.”

“Hmm.” Anduin looked down at the papers on his desk. “Reports from Northrend mention damage to Icecrown, but little Scourge movement. Any news on that from the Horde?”

“I have heard no rumblings regarding Northrend in Orgrimmar,” Valeera confirmed. “Perhaps we’ve been fortunate this time.”

“We can only hope.” Anduin sighed, cradling his head in his hands. “We’re stretched thin fighting the Horde. If Azshara forces another front … and the Scourge possibly _another…_ ” He shook his head. “We won’t hold. No one will.”

“We’ll find our answers,” Valeera promised. “I’ll find my promised food, then turn in for quick nap. I have several errands to run later and tomorrow.”

“Of course. Have a good night, Valeera.”

“You as well, my Liege.”

Anduin waited several moments, pretending to study Turalyon’s report. He had no reason to hide from Valeera, but rather feared rational discussion. That discussion would come – from Valeera, from Jaina, from _everyone_ the moment they knew about the letter hidden beneath the report.

Carefully, he slid the report to the side, skimming across words that both thrilled him and set his nerves on edge.

_  
Anduin,_

_I know you likely think ill of me. Disregard those thoughts for the moment; read and understand my words._

_With the defeat of the Legion, the remaining Old Gods seek to complete the task for which they were created. They are currently invisible and unopposed. The recent Naga attack is by no means the only movement._

_I mean to stop those movements._

_I seek the Dragon Isles, a long-ago power base of the Old Gods. I require any information you can provide. You have access to individuals who in turn have access to the dragons of other flights. Inquire through them. Perform any tasks. Pay any price. Our victory lies in timely progress which cannot happen while the Isles are hidden from me._

_When we have access to the Isles, we will know more about those we face, and what actions will most expediently eliminate the threat._

_In my travels, I have spoken to Magni Bronzebeard, and confirmed several facts the other dragon flights deemed unnecessary to impart to me. The actions I take are for the greatest good of Azeroth itself, and thus worth any price paid._

_I will be in contact again. I await the results of your investigations._

_In service to Azeroth,_

_Wrathion_

\---== {(0)} ==---

Valeera snuck away from the castle, satisfied with Anduin’s health and wellbeing. The young king certainly had something on his mind, but as he was reluctant to talk, she would leave him be. He was his own man now; she would guide when asked, and offer timely advice when the situation warranted, but she would not mother him.

That didn’t mean that she wouldn’t approach Lady Proudmoore at the upcoming ceremony, however. Where Valeera Sanguinar, friend and spymaster could not go, ‘Auntie Jaina’ certainly could.

Before all that, however, she had a task: 

Dalaran.

Several of her Uncrowned associates had mentioned a strange courier in and out of a known Horde intelligence fronts. Perhaps this might shed some light on the Warchief’s mysterious ailment. 

Even if not… well, all information was useful in times of war.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Azshara studied the infuriating helm as it stared back at her through its empty but mysteriously occupied visor. The spirit of the orc, Ner’zhul, occupied the thing like a prince in his palace. He all but dared her to put the helm on, as though she was as stupid and gullible as the peasant babies that populated the rest of the world.

Did he not realize that she could press him and his little house flat as paper? …Likely, he did. Perhaps that was his game; a bid for freedom? With the Legion’s dispersal, Ner’zhul could likely carve out a small kingdom for himself in the Twisting Nether.

Azshara’s temper flared, her power manifesting around her and clouding her vision with swirling colors. The Legion had robbed her of her home and reneged on their ‘deal’ by allowing the effects of their war to destroy her empire. They forced her into this – yet another ‘deal’ with yet another extremely selfish entity. N’Zoth, however, had grander designs for her and her Naga than the simple ‘stay out of our way’ required by the Legion. 

No, this helm could further her own projects. Its power of mass control, once properly catalogued and re-engineered, would both appease N’Zoth’s ambitions…

…and enable her to muster the power to free herself from his grasp and destroy him utterly.

But first, the orc.

A lowly, magic-blind servant swam close, bringing a plate of snacks. She tolerated it – lashing the servant for performing duties above his station would take precious, precious time away from her current pondering. Besides, the punishment lay with her Favourite, after all – she was responsible for her Queen’s tending, not those beneath her.

Her Favourite screamed in such lovely, delicate tones when her skin was cut open. She lavished her with adulation and pleas for mercy and affection, even as she cried and moaned in agony. Without failure, such ‘punishments’ always ended in cries of ecstasy for them both.

Maybe… maybe that was her Favourite’s game, sending this little thing to serve her. Even now, after so many years, she found ways to surprise her somewhat. Well, then…

Damn it.

Azshara closed her many eyes, her head tendrils twitching in frustration. That was nearly a minute of fantasizing that she hadn’t spent studying the helm. Oh, yes… her Favourite was in for a rough night indeed.

But first, the orc.

The annoying, overconfident spectre that wanted so badly to possess her. As if he could. Perhaps if she bound her own spirit and magic deep enough, there might be room for so meagre a being to squeeze its way inside. She couldn’t imagine lowering herself to try such a thing. 

Then there was the extreme necrotic fel magics embedded in the helm itself. A marvel of demonic spellweaving, with just a touch of old eredar tech savvy, courtesy of its creator, Kil’jaeden. 

With a smirk, she wondered if everyone understood how connected every single event was in this mess of ages… Kil’jaeden, who was practically brother to Velen, leader of the Draenei, whose very name meant ‘exiles’ in Eredun. Who unleashed the Scourge on this world even as the Legion entered via her own machinations, however mistaken she might have been.

Illidan, Tyrande, Malfurion… young idiots from her empire that ruled a lingering mockery of what once was. The ‘high elven’ jokes that broke off even from that… and now the forgettable Zandalari, the Titanforged mistakes and other, lesser races…

Oh, and that Kal’dorei woman who helped Jaina Proudmoore! She looked so familiar… perhaps she was as old as Tyrande?

Ha! What a mess. This entire world was a mess. 

And boring. So, so very boring. 

How many millennia had it been since she’d felt … anything? Anything but boredom. Even the recent Legion incursion had been a huge bore. She’d almost considered reaching out to battle Sargeras for fun… but a Titan might be able to hurt her in some permanent manner… and that would certainly _not_ be fun. 

She missed her childhood, where everything was a new exploration. Now, she lived only through others’ discoveries: The fleeting moments where someone discovered pleasure; and the longer, drawn-out moments where someone experienced the depths of pain.

Now, though, she had a challenge worth her time: Jaina Proudmoore. Not since her Favourite once matched her in arcane game-craft had she been so interested in someone. What a wonderful experience that had been! A hundred days and more they’d spent on match after match after match, according to others. Servants had brought them food and played gentle music while they had matched wits. Her Favourite had won several of the games and earned her new name and status.

Ah, but that was more than a thousand years ago, now. Her Favourite was … complacent now. Docile. Servile. 

Boring.

But this young human mage showed such ingenuity, such a unique take on the arcane… why, she practically hybridized the craft! Once upon a time, such notions were blasphemous! But now, in the present monotony of existence she endured, it presented a novel accomplishment! And her power…

It was positively maddening – she had to have her. To own her.

She would let Jaina lick her wounds and recover. She’d even let her begin to forget…

But not for long. Soon… once she’d removed the Old Nuisance that was N’Zoth, she could once again explore her long-time desire to cleanse other, lesser races from this planet. Everyone, even the remaining Kal’dorei, would die. Perhaps those that begged might be granted life as Naga.

Most certainly the worthy, such as young Jaina. One way or another. Nothing but the best for her new world. Finally, the world could grow and prosper in her perfect, beautiful image, now under the sea as well as above it. With a sigh, she turned her gaze back to that annoying helm.

First, the orc.

A noise drifted in the water, and she turned one eye to regard the servant as he completed his pathetic nonmagical attempts at cleaning. Why did he even exist? What use was a life without of the flow of mana; to be so bereft of it as to practically be resistant?

What use…

A triumphant grin rose as she regarded the helm with her other eyes. What use, indeed? 

“Servant,” she called back to him. 

Hurriedly he scuttled across the floor, his face pressed into the stone, kicking up debris in the water around him. 

“Your pleasure, my Queen?” he mumbled, face still down in the dirt.

“I have found a use for you, boy. Stand over there.” Quickly, he scuttled over to stand by the helm’s stand. He remained prostrated. “Up, boy, up! Stand as tall as you can!”

Slowly, the timid boy forced himself upright, standing on his central trunk as far as he dared. Hardly worth the description of ‘upright,’ but his posture was honestly irrelevant.

Only his head mattered.

“That helm beside you,” she pointed, “put it on.”

The moment he placed his hands on the helm, he froze, his four eyes widening in horror. Ah, so he did have a glimmer of sense in him. 

His eyes found hers. She tilted her head in impatience.

Good boy. Well-trained boy. A Queen’s anger overrode any thoughts of self-preservation. Hands shaking, he lifted the Helm of the Lich King and lowered it onto his head.

With a jerk, his body stood fully upright, his arms and trunk rigid. His two visible eyes glowed with azure power as the helm imposed itself on his weak, useless mind and body. Colour drained from him as every single cell died, reanimated instantly with unholy fel might.

Quickly, the new Lich King surged forward – and stopped dead as arcane shackles appeared around him, dragging him to the sea floor again. A shimmering dome of power snapped into place, trapping him.

He struggled mightily, but all for nothing. 

“Not so easy, is it?” Azshara laughed. “Who’d have ever thought that wretch you have control of could be so useful to me?”

“Release me, woman!” The Lich King – clearly Ner’zhul – bellowed. She doubted that her servant’s soul even survived the merger. 

“Release me!” he repeated. In just a moment, he would threaten her… “I will bring the might of the Scourge upon you!” Right on time. “Even under the seas, you have no…” Also, right on time. “I…” 

Ner’zhul looked at her, almost as if for the first time. “What have you done? Why can I not reach my undead?”

“I will allow you to ponder that for a moment,” Azshara said as she wove arcane strands before her. This required exactly forty-two – always forty-two for soul cages.

“This has something to do with this form…” the orc mused uselessly. Just another moment…

“Ah!” She exclaimed as her spell spun into being, ethereal machines invisibly powering to life. 

Ner’zhul’s face froze in a soundless scream as her spell targeted his soul through the body he possessed, ripping it from the helm. He collapsed, tentacles spasming for the several long minutes the spell took to finish its work.

Satisfied with what she saw, Azshara reached through the dome and plucked the helm from the still twitching head, tossing it aside. Now, finally, she had an unsullied artifact to study. She could deal with the undead orc-Naga later.

Or…

She turned to regard her prisoner as he slowly crawled around, trying to stand. Perhaps, she had a ready source of information about the helm right at her fingertips. Instead of research, gaining information could be… fun.

Ner’zhul finally managed to hold himself upright, three of four hands against the dome for support. He eyed her warily, his eyes wide as she smiled unpleasantly.

Yes. First, the orc.

With a wave of her hand, the dome dispelled and Ner’zhul slammed against the wall behind him, shackles locking every limb and tendril down. Her mental call echoed out, answered by the sound of lashing through the water.

“My Queen, you summoned me?” her Favourite asked as she swam in. She gave only a passing glance to the fate of her underling, eyes quickly searching Azshara’s face. So, she _did_ send the useless boy in on purpose.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, my sweet,” Azshara waved her hand at her new wall trophy, “but I actually found a use for your replacement. I think we might have to postpone your plans for this evening.”

“I apologize, my Queen, my everything.” The girl wound herself snake-like around her lower trunk, their tentacles reaching longingly for each other with each pass. “I will undertake any task to change your heart on the matter. My time with you is more important to me than my life.”

“Such a sweet thing,” Azshara crooned as she plucked her up and into a brief kiss. “Go and find me several Draenei. Those light-forged ones – paladins or priests, if you can. I need as many as practical, but at least a boy and a girl – you know I love to hear screams in octaves.”

“I will return as quickly as I can!” The girl promised and swam off immediately.

With a sigh, Azshara turned back to the helm. She’d miss her, truly she would. One day soon, she’d have Jaina in her arms. She’d crush her resistance, bring her into the fold as a true Naga, and then… then she’d let Jaina and her Favourite fight to the death for her affections – and she knew without a doubt that Jaina would win.

She could only have one Favourite, after all.

“What do you want of me?” Ner’zhul rasped from the wall. 

“Mm?” Azshara turned to regard him. “Oh, you can take a break. You’re useless until she gets back with those Draenei. Then, I’ll have some questions for you about this helm.”

“What do those overgrown goats have to do with me?”

“For those void-touched like myself, the Light is best used by forcefully extracting it directly from another being and channeling it into a new _receptacle._ ” 

“And you believe this will break me?” he sneered… which would have been more believable if he’d kept the tremor from his voice.

“It truly hurts you to be without power, doesn’t it?” She gave him a pitying look. “Fret not, soon they’ll come, then they’ll scream, and you’ll scream, and I’ll get both fun and answers. Then you can finally die – whatever that means for you now.”

She turned away. “Now, let’s see to you, pretty thing.” She picked up the helm and renewed her pondering, the orc already forgotten.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“I’d hoped we’d be riding again,” Vereesa moaned as she nudged the workshop door open. She heaved the box of supplies onto the nearest flat surface, stepping out of the way as Alleria did the same. Sylvanas followed with yet more boxes in tow.

“Hush, Little Moon,” chided Alleria. “Not everything can be fun and games. You might live in a neutral city, but the rest of us are at war.”

“With each other,” added Sylvanas, smirking at Alleria’s answering scowl.

“I’d love to just while the days away with the three of you,” Jaina said, appearing in a swirl of energy. “Unfortunately, the world won’t wait for us. We have Alliance business to attend to tomorrow—”

“And Orgrimmar to visit after that,” Sylvanas inserted.

“—and Orgrimmar,” Jaina agreed with a nod. “That means I need top-notch equipment again, for Sylvanas’ sake as well as my own.”

“How will you manage to finish all this in one day?” asked Alleria. 

“Well, much of the work is in material preparation.” Jaina gestured at the crates. “Thankfully, I have access to the most amazing smiths, leatherworkers and weavers.” She looked over the king’s ransom of materials she had gathered: Starwood, always the best choice for a staff; powerful elemental and alchemical reagents; and several materials soaked in the seas and blessed by the Tidesages over the course of an entire year – the finest embroidered satins, hardened hides, and stormsilver alloyed with enough monelite to give it a golden sheen. She doubted anyone in the world boasted better materials for their equipment. 

“A great deal of the rest is in the planning,” Jaina said as the sisters laid out the contents of the boxes. “I’ve had most of this planned for a while – it’s more of a slight improvement on earlier designs.”

“With a load of Azerite,” Vereesa grunted as she hefted the box of ore onto the table.

“Yes… the new fad,” Jaina eyed the golden-azure shards darkly. “I haven’t studied it long, but I can already tell that its mana absorption rate is far higher than even pure leycrystal. Far be it from me to pass up superior materials. Took me most of last night to finish up the adjustments necessary to use this instead of crystals…”

“The liquid variety goes with it?” Alleria asked, hoisting the heavy crystal bottles.

“Yes, please.” 

“So, are you a seamstress, as well?” Sylvanas asked, looking across all the raw materials. “You seem to have left out the part where rolls of leather and fabric become wearable clothing.

“Hardly. But transmutation magics can do the trick … as long as you have something to work from.” Jaina gestured to the large armoire in the corner. “If you open that, you’ll find the prototypes. Can you pull those out?”

Alleria obliged, pulling out a fully-intact set of Jaina’s battle gear, as well as a replica staff, missing only the large crystal at the top.

“Oh!” Vereesa exclaimed, her ears perking up. “You’re using those as a template for your spells!”

“Exactly. I can never hope to match the skill of master smiths and tailors … but I can copy them perfectly.”

Jaina activated the Rune of Power in the room and set her magics weaving. Fabric and leather rose from the piles, cutting and shaping. Thread unspooled and poked through in all the right places as the spellweave slowly matched the clothing on the table stitch for stitch. 

The three sisters watched as Jaina worked, Sylvanas occasionally moving things on her request. 

Vereesa poked Alleria to get her attention. “How was Stormwind? That is where you snuck off to, isn’t it?”

Alleria nodded. “All seems quiet. I had a chance to meet up with my husband and share a meal. It was… nice.”

“Nice? That’s it?”

Jaina glanced over – Sylvanas kept her eyes on Jaina’s working, studiously ignoring the topic. Alleria herself looked uneasy. Vereesa looked an awkward combination of inquisitive and bashful. Well, she’d have to dig herself out on her own – Jaina was far too occupied to moderate the discussions.

After a moment, Alleria caved to Vereesa’s imploring gaze. 

“Turalyon… you know that the naaru imprisoned me before you found me. We’ve … had our disagreements on things for some time, Little Moon.”

“You’re not implying that he had a hand in your imprisonment, sister?” Vereesa asked, aghast. “That’s atrocious!”

“What were his options?” Alleria shrugged. “Imprison me, or disobey orders and end up imprisoned alongside me? Turalyon was not in charge as he is now – we have Illidan Stormrage to thank for my freedom. That,” she laughed, “and I suppose that no one is willing to say anything too disrespectful about me on my own world. Merciful Sun, people have erected statues in my name...! So here, I am free – and dishonourably discharged from the Army of the Light.”

“Mindless pawns, the lot of them,” Sylvanas muttered as she laid stormsilver bars in front of Jaina.

Jaina focused as Sylvanas turned the metal, and the bars warped and folded until they formed pauldrons, clasps, buckles, buttons, and her signature anchor brooch. 

“What of you, Sylvanas?” Vereesa asked. “Are you and Nathanos still close?”

“Don’t speak such foolishness,” Sylvanas scoffed. “Undeath does not allow for pleasures of the flesh the way you might think.”

“Come on now, he loved you! I remember, you know! You spent all your free time with him, and the two of you seem thick as thieves now in the Horde.”

“Vereesa,” Alleria hushed her, “don’t push.”

“But look at her, Alleria! She’s fine, she has emotions like she always did! Even her temper is the same! She’s not that different, not as much as I’d feared – she just shoves it all down under the gloom!”

“Vereesa…” Jaina cautioned, turning from her work. “Please be nice.”

“I am nice! I … Sylvanas, I want to know you, the present you,” Vereesa begged. “Talk to me, please.”

Sylvanas gave a great sigh and picked up another bar. “If you must know pointless details… I am – perhaps any undead raised directly by Frostmourne, as many of my fellow rangers were… we are different. More complete. More powerful.” She paused, scowling as she relived the memory.

“He meant us to be his lieutenants. I was the most capable, or perhaps just the one he invested the most in. When I rebelled and won my freedom, those like me – my fellow Dark Rangers – were the easiest to convince. Mages, priests, warlocks … those with personal power often won free on their own as well. Others had greater difficulty breaking away; Nathanos was one of those.”

“What happened?” Vereesa asked quietly. Alleria looked inquisitive but remained silent.

“I searched for him. Scoured the ranks of the scourge in raid after raid, until I found him.” Sylvanas closed her eyes, and Jaina imagined that if she were in her elven body her ears would be drooping. “He was a wretch. Barely a trace of the man I loved remained. He remembered me, but that was the extent of it. I had to bring him back, piece by piece. What he is now…”

She paused as Vereesa gathered her into a sideways embrace, leaning into her younger sister. “Thank you,” she whispered. “What Nathanos is now is a fabrication of the original – he acts the way I have told him to act, he dotes on me because he hazily remembers once doing so. I have strengthened him using my Val’kyr, but that extra dollop of sentience and emotion is still based upon the same foundation – a lie.”

Sylvanas swallowed, wiping a traitorous tear form her face. “The truth, Vereesa,” she breathed, barely a whisper, “is that I have created a very lifelike golem in the shape of the man I once loved – using his own body, at that. Nathanos – my Nathanos – is gone and has been since the day I died.” 

Alleria joined them in their embrace. Jaina felt the urge to, as well, but did her best to work on her own, giving the sisters a moment. 

Having reached the limits of what she could do alone, Jaina beckoned to Sylvanas. “I’ll need your hands for this. Take this enchanting rod,” she indicated the device, “and hold it very close over the pieces I’m working on. I’ll guide your hand with mine.” 

Sylvanas dutifully wielded the rod holding it where directed. She watched as the liquid Azerite rose into the air at Jaina’s prodding, coiling around the enchanting rod, then trailing off in a tiny spell-controlled drip. Jaina guided Sylvanas’ hand like a pen, scrawling runes of power across the fabric and leather in key places. Then, she joined them with lines that met in circles, where she scribed yet more runes. Throughout the process, Jaina’s spell coaxed the Azerite to bond with the clothing. 

“I still have hope for Turalyon,” Alleria offered, resuming the conversation. “But any true resolution between us will take time and effort on both of our parts, and the ongoing battles force us apart. Even then, there is the void to consider – I am simply different from him, and I wonder if our love can bridge such a gap.”

“What about Arator?” Sylvanas asked over her shoulder. “Surely he must be overjoyed to see his mother again?”

“My son tries his best,” Alleria replied with a smile. “He is a joy to be with, and genuinely wishes to reconnect. He is also a follower of the Light, but … less obsessed. His is a more scholarly approach to things, which makes me wonder…” 

Alleria pinned Jaina with a narrowed gaze, ears forward. Jaina responded with a vision of innocence. Vereesa giggled and one of Alleria’s ears swivelled at the sound, seeming to point at her accusingly.

“I know nothing of which you speak,” Jaina said primly.

“Of course,” Vereesa added. “After all, only Giramar and Galadin sat and listened to their Aunt Jaina’s stories. Arator certainly wasn't visiting. He absolutely didn't ask a thousand million questions on the nature of everything.”

“Now, now. He doesn’t call me ‘Aunt’ like the twins do.”

“Of course not! He’s a man now – or at least the humans think he is. He must be manly! Powerful! Impressive! ‘Auntie’ isn’t a manly word! May the Sun forbid that he sound like someone’s child!” 

Vereesa strutted around in a very paladin-esque manner, while Jaina and the sisters giggled.

The clothing finished, Sylvanas handed Jaina her first pauldron. Jaina's spellweave coaxed the front half of the piece from its back, leaving the interior of the metal exposed. She fashioned the inner metal into runic shapes and geometric paths of power. She filled the interior circles with small Azerite crystals and the lines with thick lines of liquid Azerite that she then hardened into solid cylindrical form.

Satisfied, Jaina brought the halves of each piece together, sealing them seamlessly. She then repeated the process with the various metal components for her staff. 

“Anduin’s much the same,” Jaina spoke as she worked. “He’s very loving and ‘Auntie-this, Auntie-that’ when we’re alone. In public, though, he must be High King, and my Liege. All in all, he’s doing a great job.”

“He does appear to have a handle on things,” Alleria said, nodding. “In the short time I’ve known him, he exhibits good leadership qualities, and a superb understanding of the politics of the Alliance and Stormwind. He also has a grasp of the everyday person – not always a quality in priests of the Light.”

“You need to thank Prophet Velen for some of that,” Jaina said. “He has mentored Anduin directly in matters of the Light. I enjoy his approach to things – balanced and worldly.”

“I’d hope so,” Vereesa quipped. “He’s old enough to make Azshara herself a mere babe in comparison.” 

Jaina started the wood of the staff, running liquid Azerite up the center of the shaft top to bottom, rendering it solid before sealing it. Delicate rune work followed, the liquid sinking into the Starwood as quickly as Sylvanas could create them. 

Jaina fitted the staff with its embellishments. She socketed the two large orbs of Azerite at the tip and base of her staff. Once in place, she adjusted the fit of the metal sockets until the orbs' outer curves poked out just past the metal to round off the ends of the staff and complete the conduit.

“What of you, Little Moon?” asked Alleria. “How are your children? I half-expected to see them here, to be honest.”

“They’re well,” Vereesa said. “I might bring them along, but… well, they’d want to see their Auntie Jaina, and how do I explain that Auntie Jaina is Auntie Sylvanas, while Auntie Jaina is that image over there, because Auntie Jaina is helping Auntie Sylvanas and no, Auntie Sylvanas is still evil and still leading the Horde but she helped Auntie Jaina deal with a big monster and she got hurt and Auntie Jaina is a kind person, so she’s helping Auntie Sylvanas heal…

Vereesa shook her head. “I’d rather not go around all that a dozen times, thank you very much. Also, imagine two young boys keeping that kind of a secret.”

“Ha!” Sylvanas laughed. “An entire army of Kal’dorei would be storming this keep for my head as we speak!”

“Yes, let’s not,” Jaina agreed. “We can always have them over in a week or so.”

Jaina took the large, jagged Azerite chunk and struck off an offending edge or two, creating a rough replica of the leycrystal in her previous staff. Satisfied, she set it in place inside the tines, where a temporary kinetic lattice held it in place, gently spinning.

“I’m sure I won’t need to convince them,” Vereesa laughed. “All they ever needed to hear was ‘this is Jaina – she’s the woman your daddy saved’ and that was that. You’ve been just as important to them as Rhonin was ever since.”

Vereesa moved over and lightly hugged Jaina’s semi-solid illusion, with a hand on Sylvanas’ shoulder as well. “Thank you for that, Jaina,” she said thickly. “I don’t know how I’d have managed alone.”

“You needn’t thank me,” Jaina said. “You and Rhonin were good to me, and I owed Rhonin my life – how could I not have helped?”

“Never think of that,” Vereesa said. “We came to help you, the both of us. It was only dumb luck that I didn’t die there myself. The slightest change and all three of us would have been gone.” She shook her head vigorously. “I’m nowhere near over Rhonin’s death, Jaina. But your friendship and presence in my children’s lives has been nothing but a blessing. The Sun guided me to you, Jaina Proudmoore.”

Vereesa and Jaina shared their moment as best they could, with Alleria smiling on, and Sylvanas seeming content.

With a breath to gather herself, Vereesa looked away, gazing over the completed staff. “So, is that everything, then?”

“Everything is in place,” Jaina confirmed. “In normal circumstances, I’d need to repeat this over and over, channeling my power into it each time to give the enchantments permanency. Especially with brand new material, and such high-quality material at that. The best materials are always quite resistant to new energy patterns, so this part might take days.”

“But…” Vereesa waved her hands dramatically, “The great, grand Archmage has developed a patented, super-secret way to compress weeks of boring busywork in this windowless, claustrophobic room into a single day!” She peered at Jaina. “Yes? _Yes? Please_?!” 

“I’m with Vereesa,” Sylvanas drawled. “Besides, you did mention something about needing these to fool the Alliance leadership…”

“I do,” Jaina said, allowing herself some smugness. “For our shortcut to work, I need a tremendous source of arcane energy.” 

“Back to Dalaran?” Alleria asked, while Vereesa stood on her tip-toes and stretched. 

“Oh, no. Bigger.” 

“You mean to sneak into Silvermoon and jump in the Sunwell,” Sylvanas quipped. Vereesa snorted, while Alleria glared at her sister.

“Bigger,” Jaina chuckled. “Much bigger.” Gesturing to the side of the room, she called for a portal. “Sylvanas, put the new outfit on ... we’re going to take a trip to the Maelstrom.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

Wiping the sweat from his emerald brow and scalp, he ascended the steep rock face, one foot carefully placed at a time. Before him, the endless fury of the Maelstrom raged: An unthinkably powerful whirlpool where once the Well of Eternity stood. From its depths, a continuous stream of arcane energy poured out to the heavens in great, zig-zagging streams. Above, the storm clouds echoed the waters, swirling around the endless bolts of energy faster than the greatest natural storm.

Amidst the roar of the water and the howling winds, he could think. Here, next to the power flow that buzzed against his skin even from this great distance he found a degree of peace, but only a degree. 

The weight of his life tugged heavily at him, curling his back and hunching his shoulders. Dark thoughts plagued him until he tugged hair from his beard in anxiety and frustration.

So, he came here.

Here, he was not ex-Warchief Thrall. Here, he was not Go’el, husband of Aggra and father of Durak. Here, he was a guilt-ridden, confused shaman who could ponder his failings and beg the spirits for insight.

They spoke to him rarely these days. Flighty and vague at the best of times, they ignored completely those who lacked the focus and confidence to impress them – attributes he had little of these days. But just two days ago, they’d spoken clearly, whispering a name that harkened back to fond memories even as it stabbed at the center of his remorse.

_Jaina Proudmoore._

Once his dearest friend, and the strongest proponent of peace between the Horde and Alliance, he had failed her in the most spectacular fashion: Guided by the spirits, confident in his ability to mentor, he ignored Jaina’s warnings and chose Garrosh Hellscream as his successor.

Garrosh promptly destroyed Theramore. Jaina survived, but her love of peace did not. She suffered greatly by his choices, and here he stood with a wife and family, relatively prosperous. 

He shook himself from those thoughts, unwilling to crawl down the hole of self-incrimination. No – all in all, Jaina Proudmoore was a force for good in this world. Left to her own devices, she would likely choose peace again.

But the spirits whispered yet another name, one that worried him far more than his one-time friend.

_Sylvanas Windrunner._

His spine itched just to think of the current Warchief. Garrosh had been a creature of rage and battle – extreme to a fault, but unsubtle and understandable. The Banshee Queen, however, was a creature of shadows and stealth; of feints and daggers in the dark. When she acted openly, she did so with such casual disregard for lives and honor that even the spirits did not truly fathom her.

When the world tree Teldrassil burned, Thrall felt the spirits’ pain in his chest for weeks. 

No, he did not understand. Hearing both names whispered together disturbed him greatly. But here, he might ponder the meaning, perhaps with other whispered hints, should the spirits prove generous.

The answer came suddenly and unexpectedly in the form of a portal opening on a larger outcropping to the west.

Out stepped Jaina Proudmoore, and the spirits whispered furiously.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sylvanas marvelled at the spectacle before her. Here stood all that remained of the Well of Eternity, the historical birthright of her people, and the source from which the Sunwell sprang into being. Undead though she was, her very soul felt the tug of history and her centuries of quiet faith. No elf, Kal’dorei or Quel’dorei in ancestry, could look upon this and not feel moved.

Her borrowed heart hammered as the implications of their battle hit home. Once upon a time Queen Azshara ruled here, in the grand city of Zin-Azshari. Here, she had presided over an empire that had spanned the entire, singular continent of Ancient Kalimdor, before the Legion first came, before the Sundering that had reshaped the world.

The very same Azshara that they had fought barely two days ago, who had so casually destroyed her. She, the Banshee Queen, the finest ranger of Silvermoon, raised and empowered by the might of Frostmourne, tempered and strengthened by her pact with the Val’kyr; all she had been worth was a single swipe of Azshara’s hand. 

They’d survived only because Jaina had conveniently carried a God’s power with her — power now fully expended. Even then, they could not truly defeat Azshara, but merely push her away and escape while she fought free of the Lich King.

Mere armies had brought the Lich King low once; how many swipes of Azshara’s hand might he have taken to fall? Four? Five?

Here, in this place, she whispered a prayer to the Sun, somewhere above the persistent storm. “Brilliant Sun, light our path forward, over enemies and around danger. See us safely home.”

“The sun guides us,” came the traditional response from her sisters – and Jaina, though she shouldn’t be surprised at this point. She could see in her mind’s eye the pompous Kael’thas meticulously lecturing a young Jaina on such things while he showed her around Silvermoon.

Jaina’s illusion headed towards the edge of the outcropping, intent on somehow approaching the Maelstrom itself – when Alleria’s ear flicked sideways in catlike fashion, listening to what, perhaps, only she might hear.

“We are not alone,” she called, un-shouldering her bow and bringing it to bear. Sylvanas followed her gaze, eyes widening as she instantly recognized their observer.

“Thrall.”

“What is he doing here?” Vereesa asked, slower in arming herself. “Does he suspect?”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps his ‘spirits’ have whispered to him as the void does to you, sister?”

Alleria frowned but did not reply.

“I will handle him,” Jaina said. “Put your weapons away and stay here.” She took a step forward and vanished, appearing a heartbeat later next to the orc.

“The Sun guides us,” Sylvanas whispered, a frisson of worry for Jaina as well as herself.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Hello, Go’el,” Jaina said as she reformed close to her old friend. Her orcish was a bit stiff from disuse, but she could manage this for him.

Once upon a time, seeing him had filled her with such joy and hope. After Theramore, he had been a reminder of pain and betrayal. Now … now she simply missed him. She missed his tusked grin and rumbling laughter. She missed sneaking into Orgrimmar to meet with him, and the knowing looks of all her friends and advisors.

She missed Theramore.

“Jaina,” he rumbled, standing over her. “It is good to see you… such as it is.” He looked over her illusion sceptically, glancing at the group on the rock.

“You as well.” She reached out and laid a hand against his arm lightly. “I can see something troubles you.”

“I came here seeking answers,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “The spirits whispered, and I came – and now, here you are. Something has happened, Jaina.”

Jaina glanced behind her, then nodded. “It has.” Briefly, she recalled her fight on the island. Thrall nodded as she spoke.

“Troubling tidings,” he growled. “I do not know what will come of this. I know little of this ‘Azshara’ aside from her general history… but this disturbance of the Lich King concerns me.”

“I had little other recourse,” Jaina said as she shrugged.

“Perhaps. But now the balance is at risk.”

Oh Tides, this again. “Balance? Truly?” Jaina approximated a sigh. “Go’el, there is _no_ balance when it comes to the Lich King. At some point, sooner or later, the dead will march. Bolvar will not hold out forever.”

“I do not disagree.” Go’el gave a great snort – a very orcish way of tabling a conversation. Again, he looked her over, his head cocked as though listening to voices.

“I will not ask, as we are no longer close,” he said at length, taking a step back. “But the spirits whisper to me of deceit, Jaina. I will hope and pray for your safety.”

Oh. Now that presented a predicament to her. How would she reassure the elements themselves of her intentions? Keeping secrets did not bother her at all – but whatever Go’el heard, Baine Bloodhoof, the Tauren leader – also a shaman – might hear when they went to Orgrimmar. _That_ was an issue. 

“Go’el,” she began, gathering her words. “The secrets I keep are for the wellbeing of someone I’m helping. They gave me immeasurable aid when I battled Azshara, and I wish to repay them.”

Go’el nodded, accepting her answer. His expression did not change much, however. Jaina glanced again at the gathered Windrunners; they watched her conversation warily, Sylvanas wearing a grave expression. 

Could she trust Go’el? How much could she reveal, without endangering Sylvanas? Would she even be in danger? She doubted Go’el would impede her, but her sentiments were years out of date. Could she…

The sound of a particularly large wave crashing around their outcropping cut across her train of thought even as the mist covered Go’el and small trails of water danced down her semi-solid construct. 

And so, she had her own sources clamouring to whisper to her – how very like the Tides to get her attention with a soaking.

Pooling mana into a whirling disk, she sent it down, down, down… Deep into the ocean around them to flow with the current.

_I’m listening now, father._

Oh, the weight of those words. They meant more to her now – now that she had a fledgling connection to the tides. Her father might never again answer her, but the Tidemother would.

And she did.

And Go’el stared at her now, mouth agape in wonder. “They speak to you,” he whispered.

“I’ve opened myself to the Tides,” she said, “like the Tidesages of my home. I haven’t done this since I was a child – my ‘inferior’ practices weren’t very welcome in Dalaran, no matter how much they helped – but it saved me on the island, and now…” she chuckled, “now I think they know they have an audience, so they’ll make themselves heard.”

“Yes,” he laughed with her. “That is the way of spirits.”

“I’m listening now,” she said, out loud this time. “I’m listening, and what I’m doing now… it’s so much like it was with us back then.” She stepped forward to him again, again reaching for his arm.

“I’m fighting for peace, Go’el. It’s taken me years, but I’m ready; and it’s worth the risks I’m taking.”

Go’el again nodded at her works and cocked his head, listening. And then he smiled. 

“I think I understand,” he said, covering her hand lightly with his own – though it still went through. “Thank you, Jaina. It gives me great peace to hear that you have begun to heal. I will trust you, as I should always have done.”

“Go’el…” 

If ever Jaina had dreamt of an apology from Go’el, never would she have expected it to be as sincere as the words he had just spoken. In her wildest dreams, she’d never thought their friendship was salvageable in light of Theramore and her own retaliatory attack on Orgrimmar. Yet here it was, mending itself out of the blue. 

Literally, she thought, as the waves danced around her happily.

Still, that was more than enough sentiment for the day. Mustering up her best approximation, she gave her own great snort – and then they both laughed at how horrible it sounded.

“Tell me,” he asked as they recovered, “what brings you to the Maelstrom?”

“Charging up my new equipment,” she said. She eyed the endless arcane streams dancing from sea to sky. 

“You mean to approach the Maelstrom directly?” he asked, eyebrows raising. 

“If you feel generous, I could always use help convincing some elder elementals to help me…” Prodded by the tides, she added: “Actually, there is one other thing you might do for me after, as well. If you’re willing.”

Go’el cracked his knuckles in response with a familiar tusked grin. “Very well. Together, old friend.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sylvanas kept her eye on Thrall as they walked down the new pathway. Jaina had assured her of his cooperation, but still she worried.

She had so little control. She seethed with anxiety; her thoughts spun endlessly on how to rectify her powerlessness, but always ended in failure. Yet again, she forced herself to trust the woman whose body she possessed.

Jaina was dependable. Jaina wanted to bargain for peace. Jaina would not let her perish.

Beneath them, a group of earth elementals created – and in some areas _were_ – the pathway, while water elementals supported it from beneath, holding it immobile against the raging whirlpool. The path ended in a crumbling mess only a few feet away from the surging bolts of power; already the wild energies ate at the stone. 

“You are certain this will hold?” she asked again.

“Yes, Sylvanas,” the mage answered patiently. “We aren’t going to plummet to our deaths. Now hurry up, oh walker-of-my-body and bearer-of-my-staff. I require your arms.”

Vereesa sniggered at them, but Alleria remained silent. Sylvanas sympathized with her – she’d heard from Lor’themar what had transpired at the Sunwell – that void creatures had formed in an attempt to corrupt the pool, and that Alleria had subsequently been exiled from Silvermoon like all other elves tainted by the void.

Did she fear that occurring here? Dark naaru or not, Alleria seemed insignificant in the presence of the Maelstrom. Nothing similar could occur here. 

Soon, they approached the energy stream, and Jaina’s illusion flickered in and out. The force of the winds threatened to knock them from their feet. Their ears survived only by dint of Jaina’s magics – the screaming of the arcs of power and the frequent thunderous clashes as beams crossed came across as merely extremely loud, rather than overwhelming to the point of physical harm.

“It’s your show now,” Jaina said next to her ear. “I will lose my sensory spells if I take them any closer. Hold the staff so that the crystal is as close to the stream as you can get it. I will do the rest.”

Sharing a glance at her sisters, Sylvanas squared her shoulders, and stepped forward. Quickly, she took the staff by its end and thrust it out, the floating Azerite nearly touching the stream as it danced close, then away. 

Grunting, she held the staff in place. The stream came close again, then danced off…

Then it struck, a great arc peeling from the main stream and surging into the staff. Surprised, exultant laughter exploded from her as the massive arcane current thrummed down the staff and through her body. 

Power. Overwhelming, unbelievable power. 

Jaina’s magics surged and crashed around her, directing the stream into each individual piece of equipment. The Azerite within glowed with a bright, sky-blue glow that seeped through the metal and fabric, streaming out to form patterns and rotating fields of such geometric complexity that Sylvanas lost track of where one began and the next ended. 

Was this what the ancient Kal’dorei felt like? Did they taste this supreme might when they drew from the Well of Eternity? Because this… this was _everything_.

In her centuries of life and years of undeath, she’d never felt such might, such joy, this rush of omnipotence and …

… and perhaps she’d never truly lived before. Perhaps no one in Silvermoon had lived. 

Beside her, Alleria stood in her umbral form, a living shadow. Dark tendrils of void energy tore away from her, disintegrating in the torrent of energy radiating out from Sylvanas. She seemed at peace, as though she stood in a waterfall, washing off a week’s trek through the forest.

Vereesa leaned dangerously close to her, eyes alight with hunger and a growing satisfaction as she fed from the energies. 

Ah. That… would need monitoring. The Sin’dorei had the Sunwell, and before that, they made do with fel energies. Did Vereesa not sate her need for magic in Dalaran? She would question Vereesa on that later. 

Or Jaina. Yes, that was perhaps the more discrete option. She would certainly keep tabs on her friend’s wellbeing.

“That’s everything,” Jaina said, straining to make herself heard over the roar of the maelstrom. “Back away, Sylvanas!”

With great effort – and some reluctance – Sylvanas wrenched the staff away from the stream, ending the current within her. The loss was both devastating and welcome, every nerve tingling with excess mana. She stumbled a step or two as she reminded herself how to walk.

Jaina carefully folded the magics around her back into the items they inhabited. Gone were the golden hues of Azerite, bleached away in the deluge of power. Both crystals at the base and tip of the staff, as well as the great shard floating between the tines glowed in the radiant, unmistakable blue of free mana.

Silence reigned as the four of them walked back to the outcropping. Words would forever fail to describe the thrill of approaching the Well. Their walkway dismantled itself as Jaina opened their return portal. With a final wave to the distant Thrall, she stepped through, Sylvanas and her sisters following quickly after.

\---== {(0)} ==---

In Boralus, the Windrunners and Proudmoores laughed and talked over dinner, discussing the funeral ceremonies to come and hopes for the future.

In the workshop beneath them, Jaina’s new equipment floated around the circle above the Rune of Power, bathed in a swirling cloud of Jaina’s own mana, slowly attuning to their creator.

\---== {(0)} ==---

In Dalaran, the mysterious elven courier sent yet another letter confirming their arrival time in Orgrimmar.

Unbeknownst to the Dark Ranger delivering the message to Orgrimmar, the letter had already been read. 

Valeera’s brow remained furrowed all the way back to Stormwind, so confounding were the contents. While she did not recognize every individual’s code names, she recognized enough, including the signature. 

Sylvanas Windrunner was not injured in Orgrimmar. She was active – and she was in Kul-Tiras.

\---== {(0)} ==---

In Orgrimmar, Baine Bloodhoof parted ways with his old Warchief, Thrall. In his hand, to his pleasant surprise, was a letter addressed to him from Jaina Proudmoore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Funerals! Medals! Speeches! Meetings! Wait what was that? ...Oh no! Everyone grab your goats and run!


	7. Mountains to Climb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. 
> 
> Finally, it's ready. I've been away for a bit; mostly real-life responsibility, and a dash of writer's block. The awesome JE_Talveran has aided me in soldiering through.
> 
> This chapter is the first in which I really start to flesh out my take on Azeroth, as well as Jaina and Sylvanas. I hope everyone enjoys the ride!

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you with a sword,” Sylvanas said as she hefted the sabre, giving it a test swing. “Good balance,” she muttered, taking in its obviously stormsilver blade. The blue gems mounted either side of the blade, just above the cross guard, shone with a glow slightly greener than Jaina’s signature – more the color of sea foam than her icy blue. The guard swept down in a full basket fashioned in the likeness of House Proudmoore’s anchor emblem, the gold-tinted alloy and blue background of the anchor again different to Jaina’s – the colors of her father, Daelin Proudmoore.

“My father’s sword is something of a badge of office,” Jaina said, handing her a ring with similar golden sheen and aqua-blue gem. “This was his signet. Left middle finger, please,” she instructed as Sylvanas put the ring on. “When my mother named me Lord Admiral, I felt… successful, I guess. Vindicated.” Jaina looked away. “Later on, when I began to move into the office, she presented me with these, and I … they feel so heavy to me. The mantle of a nation and the weight of my father’s death all at once…”

“You wear it well,” Sylvanas said quickly, feeling out of place offering comfort. “Now, tell me about this one…?” Sylvanas hefted the ornate lantern. Another obviously Kul-Tiran artifact – blueish silver and pale gold, with small blue decorative gems hanging here and there – it’s pale light might illuminate a desk; at most a claustrophobic hallway.

“That’s the Fogbreaker,” Jaina said. “It has some interesting enchantments with respect to sea travel, but it’s for ceremony here.” With a small pulse of power, Jaina replicated the items and held them, the Sabre drawn and low in her right, and the lantern raised high in her left. “Here, we’re lighting the way for the sailors’ spirits to find their way into the Tidemother’s arms. Brother Pike is leading the Tidesage chant; we basically stay to his right and about two steps ahead, and we turn toward each casket as we reach it. I’ll be a whisper in your ear, prompting you along.”

“Very well.” Sylvanas sheathed the sword and kept the lantern in hand, her thoughts already fixed in the future. “This is the easy part, I suppose.” 

“It is,” Jaina agreed. “We’ll talk more about Stormwind before we arrive there.”

“I find it odd that they wish to award medals on the same day as they mourn the dead.” Sylvanas shook her head. “Human customs never struck me as being so uncaring.”

“They aren’t usually,” Jaina allowed, “but this is a case of semantics. Technically, the dead are being honoured for their service as well.” She frowned. “Lots of shiny metal and pretty ribbons to give to their families, I suppose. It’s also meant to bolster morale by honouring those who survived.”

Jaina gestured back at Sylvanas. “We will be one of the focal points. Our medal is meant to underscore the fact that we won the battle.” 

“In which you give an inspiring speech for the masses—”

“—and hope Anduin’s public relations gamble pays off,” Jaina finished. “Exactly.” She sighed – a much improved rendition after so much practice. 

“The boy does have his father’s boldness,” Sylvanas said, smiling at her own memories. “He’s fearless, even if he’s sometimes naïve.”

“He’s also the only other soul in the Alliance who might help you as I have,” Jaina said, poking at Sylvanas gently. “If everything goes south in Stormwind, he’s our backup plan.”

A shudder worked its way up Sylvanas’ spine, refusing to leave even as she squirmed. “I truly hope that we are not so easily exposed.” Frowning at herself, Sylvanas tensed and flexed every muscle in her body, finally banishing the feeling. “I detest this prolonged state of powerlessness.”

“It should be over soon,” Jaina soothed. “With luck, we’ll arrive in Orgrimmar and find your body ready and waiting for you.”

“It should also find us with some well-written letters to each other, complete with signatures and crests. As soon as I return to my own body, we need to make public our intentions, or we will squander this lull in hostilities.”

“I have mine written,” Jaina confirmed. “I’ll finalize it after you’ve read it.”

Sylvanas sighed. “I truly miss my sleepless nights. I’ll work on it before we leave. I’d rather have your letter in my pocket for when we reach Orgrimmar.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

The letter fell from Nathanos’ hand, floating down to the desk. He now had all the leaders’ confirmations. In only hours, he would see Sylvanas again, and some of the mounting pressure would ease.

Only the First Arcanist, who was a newcomer, and Bloodhoof, whom Nathanos strongly suspected still maintained communication with the Alliance, seemed calm. All others expressed concern – some with barely concealed hope – that the Dark Lady would perish … or had already perished … or would at least need to vacate the position of Warchief…

The wood of the desk splintered under his unfeeling hand. He relaxed it immediately; this was his Queen’s desk. His outlet would need to be something else. Perhaps in the night, while the others slept, a few of their more outspoken people would ‘disappear.’ Yes, that would be a good repayment for disloyalty.

“It is finished,” Brynja announced as she exited the Warchief’s room, her wings folding tightly around her. Behind her, the Warchief’s body lay still and silent, awaiting its spirit.

“Good,” Nathanos said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “When she arrives tonight, we will be ready.”

“Her host will be cooperative?” The Val’kyr asked, stopping near him.

“She will be.” Nathanos tapped a letter on the Warchief’s desk. “My Queen has indicated to me that they will discuss further cooperation, as well.”

Brynja nodded, then paused. “Are you certain of my remaining orders, then? The recovered Proudmoore body might be an issue…”

Nathanos shrugged. “I follow my orders to the letter, as should you. If the Dark Lady wishes to halt the operation, then we shall. Until then, we proceed.”

Brynja nodded slowly. “And if he is already risen when that time comes?” 

“Then we destroy him and burn the corpse.” Nathanos frowned. “What does it matter? Unless we choose to reveal the body to Kul-Tiras, it may as well not exist.”

The Val’kyr glanced at him strangely but nodded and left. Nathanos shook his head – why did everyone feel the need to question directives these days? It was never an issue in Quel’Thalas, and it _usually_ wasn’t one amongst the Forsaken. 

“Blightcaller,” a dark ranger called from the hallway. “Lor’themar has arrived from Silvermoon.”

“Wonderful,” Nathanos muttered, but he shook his head to clear his thoughts. Lord Regent Theron had served under Sylvanas once upon a time; he still held his values well enough to deserve a show of respect. Cracking his torso to and fro, he set his expression and walked toward the meeting hall.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Miles from the Alliance citadel of Stromgarde Keep, a dark portal quietly opened amongst the trees. Birds and animals fluttered away as three dozen tall shapes slithered forth, slowly winding towards the keep as the portal vanished behind them.

“We shall find our prey here,” the Favorite instructed the others. “Our Queen requires several of the Lightforged Draenei. Those we will take alive. Capture perhaps a half-dozen of the others and kill the rest. Take your shapes!”

Each naga drank a large potion. Quickly, their bodies shrank and folded inwards until a small group of blood elf rangers and mages remained. From a large bag, they dressed and armed themselves accordingly. Once again, the Favorite addressed them.

“We have a limited window before we are noticed. By then, we must be off towards the Horde.”

“The first patrol,” one of her people warned, pointing at horses appearing down the road.

“Our first victims,” she confirmed with a nod. “Invisibility potions! Spread out and mark your targets! No one must escape this attack.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

Naali was perhaps the most beautiful woman that Jer’dor had ever met. Her horns rose in graceful curves above her soft skin; her light, deft handling of the Light contrasted against his heavy channeling in a way that mystified him.

He had arrived only recently with High Exarch Turalyon. None of the Draenei from the Exodar had undergone the Lightforging process, which struck him as odd at first. He’d jumped at the offer – a deeper connection to the Light would only benefit both himself and his people. 

Naali had changed his mind. She could not be more perfect; her Light could shine no brighter than this. 

He hoped her shy smiles meant that she felt the same. That she saw his broken horn and battle scars as symbols of worthiness. She’d been quite friendly this patrol; perhaps he might entice the priestess to dine with him tonight, and they could converse. Get a feel for where each other stood. 

The chuckle of the dwarf riding next to him drew him momentarily from his thoughts. 

“Thinkin’ of her again, lad?” He laughed. “Oh, you got it bad.”

“Oh, shut up.” He kicked a hoof out at the dwarf, startling the warrior’s horse. Still laughing, the dwarf edged a bit further away.

Light above, it had been hundreds of years, perhaps a solid millennium since he’d felt a connection to another like this. Finally, after so much battle, he hoped to build a home here. Maybe even with N—

The whistle of an arrow accompanied a sharp pain as it nicked his ear. All around him, the muted impacts fell like rain.

His horse jerked to the side as three shafts struck its flank. Another arrow bounced along his breastplate. To his right, the dwarf fell backwards off his mount, an arrow protruding from his open mouth.

Their only mage, a spry old gnome, took at least a dozen direct hits, breaking his shield and piercing him through his enchantments over and over. His fireball fizzled and died in his hand as life left his eyes. 

The big Worgen captain charged at the tree line where several elves stood. Before he cleared half the distance, a dozen arcane bolts sizzled forward, detonating with catastrophic force across his body. 

An arm flew to the right while his head almost comically flew straight up, flipping over and over in a shower of gore. His body slumped soundlessly to the ground, the head bouncing down upon it.

Their own hunters took shelter behind their doomed mounts, firing back with rifle and longbow. 

Naali rushed to the choking, gurgling dwarf, holy Light flowing from her hands as she ran. Just as she reached him, she screamed in pain as an arrow lodged in her shoulder. She stumbled, dipping low – another arrow bounced off the tip of her horn, chipping a small piece off.

Rage, fear and desperation broke him from his stupor. Jer’dor rolled off his mount, feeling for his sword and shield. He positioned his own mount in front of them as he dropped in front of Naali, shielding her from further attacks.

“Here,” he said, placing the shield to rest against her side. “Do what you can.”

“What do you mean to do?” Naali asked fearfully. 

“What else is there to be done?” he said, a sad resignation growing in his heart. “We are outnumbered.” He glanced behind them – only one of their archers still lived. “I will endure as long as I can,” he vowed. “Get him on his feet and run. Tell Stromgarde the Horde has attacked.”

Naali reached for his hand – a short instant of a shattered dream to see him through his final moments – and then he was off. 

Drawing heavily upon the light, he summoned a blinding shield before him, charging forward towards the trees. Spell and arrows slammed against it, but it held firm as he reached the foliage. 

One of the elves charged forward with a sword. He met the attack with his blade and recoiled as the blow came with surprising strength. The elf struck like a Tauren! Another came at him; and another. 

He swung his sword almost wildly to fend off the elves. Round and around he spun, struggling to meet steel with steel, preserving his shield as long as he could. 

But his enemies were many. He struggled to hold his ground – even to press forward as hard as he might. His last moments would see Naali away safely. 

The sound of shattering glass echoed around him as his dome finally failed. He snarled in pain as the first blows struck him, leaving thin trails of blood as the enchantments in his armor took the brunt. He swung around, offering the thickest parts of his armor to the blows he could not block. His heart soared as he felt his own blade strike true – and then screamed as an arrow pierced his leg. A sword hilt bashed across his helmet, spinning him away. He risked a glance outward—

—An elf stood above Naali, his bloody sword gleaming atop her unmoving body.

More blows rained down upon him. Again, and again, they struck him across the head, battering him senseless. At some point, he lost his sword, swinging around half-heartedly against his enemies.

It didn’t matter. Naali was dead. He had failed. 

The light faded out from his heart, even as it faded from his sight.

\---== {(0)} ==---

The gathered crowd packed the square, leaving the Tidesages barely any room to move. The Kul-Tiran fleet sat in the harbor, each crew at attention on the fore and main decks. Soldiers and the few knights of the land lined the edges of the square. Gryphons circled slowly overhead, keeping anchor formations.

Sylvanas silently worked out a lump in her throat at the turnout. The last time she’d seen such a gathering was for Vol’jin, just after she’d been made Warchief. Horde gatherings were never so homogenous as this, however. Vol’jin’s funeral was… generic. Full of compromise. Darkspear tribal customs were cast aside in favor of including all the non-Troll members of the Horde.

Which was good.

But also, hollow.

At Jaina’s near-silent urging, she stood at the center of the square, lantern high. Her sword was unsheathed, but down at her side. The Tidesages sharpened their line and readied themselves, and the crowd stilled to a hush.

Sylvanas felt Jaina’s spellwork shift and prepared herself to move believably while she spoke. 

But she did not speak. 

She sang.

High and clear, her voice pierced the silence. She sang a lilting shanty tune, equally mournful and hopeful. Jaina’s conjured voice was plain and almost mechanically accurate; jarringly obvious, she thought. For a moment, Sylvanas felt frighteningly exposed and vulnerable. But the song did its work: Recognition washed across the crowd and by the end of the first line, everyone in the square had taken up the song, drowning Jaina out . 

Water elementals rose in the spaces between the ships in the harbor and along the sound, swaying gently to the tune. The Tidesages joined in on the second verse, their trained, experienced voices adding depth and power.

In the corner of her vision, she saw Vereesa and Alleria positioned in the perimeter line of soldiers. Both looked as haunted as she felt. 

Memories of Silvermoon, precious and painful, flickered through her mind. Great ceremonies around the Sunwell. Workings of wondrous magic that required dozens, sometimes hundreds, of mages. Everyone’s voice raised in song. One people. One culture. One religion. No compromises. No translations. No dilution of traditions.

_Home._ She missed her home.

As the song ended, the Tidesages took up a more formal chant. Prompted, Sylvanas turned and led the procession along the line of caskets, stopping at each one and saluting with her sword while Brother Pike gave a solemn prayer. One by one, they named each of the fallen. Behind them, pallbearers hoisted the caskets and began a slow march toward the graveyards. The crowd thinned as families of the fallen followed their deceased. 

At the last, the Tidesages again lined up and Sylvanas stood before them, sword up at salute while the final casket moved off. Most of the water elementals sank back into the harbor; the remaining few helped the crews dock their ships properly.

“We will assemble here in a half-hour,” Jaina spoke to the soldiers as the Tidesages departed. “I will open a portal to Stormwind, and anyone who wishes to will attend the coming Alliance funerals.”

With a final round of salutes, the soldiers dispersed. Sylvanas sheathed her sword and rolled her very stiff shoulder as she finally brought the lantern down. Alleria and Vereesa made their way over; wordlessly, the sisters stared at each other.

“I will meet with the other Alliance soldiers,” Alleria said softly. “We will muster all we can and meet you here.”

“I… I should stop in at home,” Vereesa said. “See my children. I still might show up at the service, but…”

“I understand,” Sylvanas said. “If I do not see you again, before…” she gestured at herself, “then I will make contact when I can.”

“Thank you.” With a smile, Vereesa reached out and hugged Sylvanas, then Alleria, before walking towards the keep.

“Are you alright?” Asked Jaina quietly, her voice a whisper in her ear. “You seemed distraught.”

“Memories,” Sylvanas dismissed. “Good ones, though. The Forsaken have little in the way of formal culture. This was … a much-needed reminder. It’s given me something to think about going forward.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

The sun shone bright and clear over the gathering crowds. Anduin watched it from his balcony as his outfitter fretted about him, securing his frills and trappings. The somber nature of the upcoming service and the general discontent of the crowd rubbed painfully against his conscience. So many had already died, and they had nothing to show for it.

He closed his eyes as both his head and stomach throbbed painfully. 

Gilneas was a broken land of feral Worgen, Forsaken remnants and desperate looters. All able-bodied Gilneans were here, in Stormwind.

Darnassus and Darkshore were destroyed, the losses devastating to the Night Elves. Their remaining population mustered here. In Stormwind.

The living remnants of long-lost Lordaeron, here. In Stormwind. The few survivors of Theramore, in Stormwind. The Pandaren who came to support the Alliance? In Stormwind. 

The Draenei were very self-sufficient in both Exodar and the orbiting Vindicaar; the void-elves somewhat secretive about their homestead; the gnomes and dwarves the most economically stable of all the Alliance races… But they all mustered their military forces here.

In Stormwind.

Wrathion wanted help with his ‘project.’ Auntie Jaina still needed help securing Kul Tiras and rebuilding. Stromgarde was still yet to be decisively held. A push on Darkshore loomed on the horizon as High Priestess Tyrande lobbied endlessly for retaliation. Efforts to scavenge islands for Azerite remained a significant priority. 

So many things to do. So many mouths to feed. Despite the steadfast goodwill and generosity of Ironforge and New Tinker Town, Stormwind’s treasury stood frighteningly empty. Worse still, his farmlands were woefully insufficient to provide for so many people at once, and reports of shortages nearly rivalled the calls for more funding.

After so many wars, so many attempts to disrupt the nation. Numerous attempts on his life. Countless more attempts against his father… and now, as he struggled to fill his late father’s shoes, his country lay withered and crippled around him, gasping for air. 

Stormwind was dying. Despite his best efforts, his country was dying, and he could think of nothing to prevent it.

With a growl, he knocked his servant’s hand aside and stalked back into his office. What did he care about how he looked when the end loomed perhaps only months away? What did pretty ceremonies and speeches matter when the crowd went home to empty larders? 

He could import more, certainly – but not for free, and only in limited quantities. Jaina could and certainly would provide from Kul Tiras, but that too required significant investment. His aunt would not abuse her powers – nor should she! – to artificially bolster her people; besides, magic too had associated costs, some perhaps more dear than mere gold and labor. Relying on conjured goods amounted to filling a dry river one barrel of water at a time. 

He would fix this. He would halt the downward spiral somehow. Some way. He would not be the king that failed after everything his father had accomplished…!

A large hand stopped him in his tracks. 

“Calm yourself,” Genn Greymane growled, his towering Worgen frame blocking his path. The white-furred King of Gilneas attempted what Anduin knew was a look of reassurance. On Genn’s lupine muzzle it resembled every other expression he made – a snarl.

“We’re due out in a quarter hour or less,” he continued. “Let’s not have you sending the wrong message by scaring everyone in the castle, hmm?”

Blinking, Anduin looked around – in his musings, he’d left his office, and even the throne room itself. Here he was, halfway to the front doors, with a trail of concerned courtiers and servants in his wake. Several made to speak to him, only to back away quickly at Genn’s growl. 

“Right,” he muttered. “Let’s be on our way, then.”

With a nod, Genn stepped away as Anduin righted himself and made for the gates at a statelier pace. Focusing on one of the longer ceremonial prayers to the Light, Anduin slowly calmed and centered himself as they approached Cathedral Square.

There, he greeted the other gathered leaders and several champions he knew well.

A rippling portal opened between two prepared mages, and he felt a rush of relief as his aunt Jaina stepped into view, resplendent in what must be a newly made battle robe, her staff exuding a now-familiar current of power as it floated obediently behind her. He took in the sword buckled to her side, and the mystic lantern she carried before her. 

As she walked forward, a contingent of Tidesages marched in, chanting the blessings of the Tides. To their sides, rows of Kul Tiran knights astride great white destriers came, followed by large formations of soldiers and sailors. Gryphon riders took to the skies as they stepped clear. To one side came Alleria with the Alliance contingent from Kul Tiras, as well as a sizeable number of her Ren’dorei. 

A feeling of intense gratitude welled up in his heart as the people around him took in the display. Even surly Genn and the perpetually angry Tyrande seemed impressed, and their reactions paled in comparison to the gathering crowd.

Tales of the Kul Tiran navy were legendary in Stormwind, but even with their re-entry to the Alliance, few people had truly seen much of the island folk. Now here they were in high number, a pointed show of both strength and support for Anduin.

Jaina played her part, as well: He felt her presence in the light breeze teasing his hair and the very slight drop in temperature. The eyes of the crowd snapped to her as her aura washed over them, its source unmistakable – just enough power to compel interest without provoking fear. The people ate up the spectacle, crowding against the barricades. 

The Orphans of Theramore gathered, wearing blue and white to match the Lord Admiral as she marched past them smiling and waving. 

Even he felt moved by this masterful illusion, and he knew better – he’d been trained by Jaina herself, amongst so many others. Kul Tiras was no bastion of power, not yet; not without a lot of work.

But right now, in this moment, they looked mighty. Led by their Lord Admiral, marching to the mysterious drone of their Tidesages, they appeared indomitable. In this moment, the beleaguered people of Stormwind looked upon their newfound allies and dared to hope that their burdens would ease, and their struggles lessen.

The realities of their situation could wait for later. In the chill of evening, the leaders of the Alliance could scrounge their last pennies and limping soldiers and decide what the future held. 

For now, let the people look upon their gathered heroes and leaders, and renew their hope.

\---== {(0)} ==---

_They hate you. They will abandon you._

Carissa winced at the shadowy whispers, trying her best to concentrate on the ceremony. Anduin and several other priests of the Light led the crowd in several well-known hymns. Even in Silvermoon, they sang these sometimes. She mouthed the Thalassian words even as the crowd sang in the human tongue.

Bittersweet memories mingled with the songs; times when she, too, was a priestess resplendent in robes with little tiny sun motifs all around the hems. She sang well, beautifully even. Everyone had always complimented her on her voice, right up to the end.

Even Lady Liadrin.

_She threw you away. Just the tiniest flaw. A single drop of darkness, and she tossed you out to die._

That whisper hurt. She squeezed her eyes shut, hastily wiping away a tear. With luck, the people around her would assume she’d lost someone and pay no notice.

_Of course they notice. They notice the shadows bending around you. They feel the chill of darkness and shy away, afraid that you’ll steal their light._

Just like the Sin’dorei did. So paranoid that the Sunwell might again be tainted, they threw her out, and so many others, at the slightest hint of the void. In all her time as Lady Liadrin’s assistant, she’d used shadow magics exactly once. 

Once. 

To save Lady Liadrin’s life, she channeled from the shadows, assaulting their enemies and drawing them away from the Lady so that the others might aid her. She’d been grateful, and no one else had otherwise commented. Their operation continued, completed, and then they’d returned to Silvermoon.

A week later, she sought assistance for a faint whispering voice that she could occasionally hear.

In less than an hour, she’d been thrust out the gates of Silvermoon, barred forever from her home. Lady Liadrin had scarcely even looked at her. She’d not even been able to pack – they sent her out with the clothes on her back, likely hoping for the wilderness or some leftover Scourge to kill her. 

What else could she do, but embrace the shadows, if only to survive?

_Survive? You will_ thrive _in the shadows. Here, you will know true strength and true purpose. You have only to give in to us. Give yourself over to the void and we will never abandon you. You will be with us forever._

Magister Ulric had gathered them into a loose community, and then Lady Alleria had brought them to the Alliance. Now, they had some hope for the future, even if they struggled at present.

_The Alliance leaves you to rot in Telagrus Rift. They are no different than the Horde. They will use you, and then abandon you to die._

Her thoughts drifted to Lady Jaina and Warchief Sylvanas. She felt no small amount of pride and honor at being trusted with their secret. She could just make out the head of the Lord Admiral – such courage to help a sworn enemy.

_Not just one sworn enemy, is it? She knows what you are, too. She should murder the abomination while she can. You should help her. Do it for her. She will thank you for it._

“Please stop,” she breathed – barely enough to even feel the words in her mouth. The ever-present whispers were… but no. No. Even acknowledging them to herself was giving in. They were ephemeral nonsense. They were nothing.

_And yet, for all your pretty dreams and futile struggles, you have also become nothing._

Summoning every ounce of will she possessed, Carissa bit down on her lip and refused to give voice to her struggles. How she wished to shout at the top of her lungs, to banish the whispers in a cacophony of screams. She was no peasant or simpleton; she could roar her list of accomplishments from the highest rooftop for hours—

—and frighten the people that had just accepted her. Show them that the shadows were, indeed, uncontrollable and dangerous.

A living shadow stretched out from her hair and stroked up the side of her face. The tip of the tendril glowed a pale blue to match her eyes; the otherworldly gleam of the void.

_Soon._

She swallowed painfully against the bile suddenly churning in her gut, and squeezed her eyes shut. A sweaty chill washed over her, a wave of weakness that left her desperate for air. As quietly and unobtrusively as she could, Carissa made her way to the exit, stumbling around to the shady side of the cathedral. There, she rested her head against the cool stone and forced herself to breathe. The otherworldly appendage retreated again into her hair, but she could feel it still as it writhed and curled. Other, smaller ones itched and squirmed elsewhere.

The whispers went silent as the last of her hope withered to dust. She was going to die. Her accomplishments would come to an end soon. The shadows were winning. 

She fumbled with the clasp of her shirt, retrieving the amulet entrusted to her. The smooth surface of the Heart of Azeroth caught the light, glowing almost as if she stood out in the direct sun. Magni Bronzebeard’s charge – to help heal the injured soul of Azeroth – was one she could not finish. Why Magni had entrusted her…

‘Soon,’ she thought, as a quiet laughter echoed in the silence. 

Steeling herself, she re-entered the cathedral. She needed to speak to Lady Jaina again – to all the leaders, in fact. They might succeed where she would certainly fail. They had to.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Three have escaped!” An archer cried as the horses disappeared further along the tree line.

“Let them go,” the Favorite commanded. “This last patrol was doubled in size – they are alerted now, and we must move.”

“We only have four of these Lightforged ones,” another spoke, nudging one of the unconscious Draenei with his foot.

“It will have to do. How many others do we have?”

“Six alive. Fourteen dead.”

“Gather the living; we must move quickly to secure our deception. Leave the dead visible for them to find.”

As her people saw to their tasks, the Favourite removed a Horde patrol report she’d stolen yesterday. It should be a simple cantrip to spin a tale of an Alliance ambush of a Horde patrol. With luck, it would be some time before the fighting paused enough for anyone to notice the missing soldiers.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“…and the southern farmlands are showing sings of soil depletion,” Anduin said, hands gesticulating wildly. “The supply lines to Stromgarde…”

Sylvanas kept her posture forward and attentive as the boy spoke; a marvellous amount of exploitable information poured forth – unusable information, she’d chastised herself at least a dozen times now. These last two days with Jaina and her sisters had opened her eyes to a workable alternative to warfare; one where carefully tended borders and slowly growing trade agreements would refocus national efforts inwards and allow everyone to tend to their own affairs. It was simply a matter of hammering in the final nails, much of which concerned the leaders who supported continued conflict.

First though, they had to survive the coming meeting with Alliance leadership. The dwarf Queen-Regent Moira Thaurissan, the gnomish High Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque, King Genn Greymane, High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind and Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage already sat in the meeting room, the beginnings of an argument echoing from the open door. Turalyon nodded at them as he stepped through the office to enter the meeting room, followed by Stormwind’s spymaster, Matthias Shaw. 

The Worgen Greymane and the Kal’dorei, Whisperwind and Stormrage, were all effectively rulers-in-exile by Sylvanas’ direct action. They would most certainly be the key opponents to any peace proposals and were her chief concern should her presence be discovered. Still, others here might prove to be allies.

The Sin’dorei, Valeera Sanguinar, sat beside Anduin; apparently, she was a good friend of Varian Wrynn and had stayed on for his son. Clearly, her ‘independence’ from both Horde and Alliance showed bias. Perhaps a few days ago, this scene would have prompted Sylvanas to end her life. Now, however, she presented yet another vital bridge across factions that she could exploit to further plans. 

“I just don’t know what to do,” Anduin finished, head hung low. “Everything is ready to fall apart, and I can’t see any way to stop it.”

“We will,” Jaina promised, while Sylvanas squeezed his shoulders in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. “I have to put things in order in Kul Tiras, and then I can take the edge off for both food and funding. I have meetings lined up with Gelbin, Moira, and three different traders from Pandaria. We’ll make it though.”

“I hope so,” Anduin sighed, reaching up to grab her hands. “I really do, Auntie.”

“Let’s focus on the medal ceremonies first,” Jaina prompted. “Then we’ll let Genn and Tyrande vent a bit, and then lay out what we—”

“High Exarch!” 

Conversation halted as a Draenei soldier crashed through the room, panting. “High Exarch, the Horde are attacking patrols just outside Stromgarde! They’ve fled with several prisoners! Fourteen are already dead!”

Turalyon exploded out of the meeting room and tore off, Genn and Matthias following swiftly after. Others walked out slower – Thaurissan and Mekkatorque were quickly packing their papers, while Whisperwind scowled as she leaned against Stormrage’s shoulder. 

Anduin, Valeera and Sylvanas stared at each other or several seconds.

“I’ll go,” Valeera said as she backed away. “Lady Liadrin is currently in command at Ar’gorok. A preemptive strike like that is unlike Liadrin, so something might be amiss.” She stopped a moment, looking at Sylvanas. “Do you think this has something to do with the Warchief’s movements, Lady Jaina?”

Anduin’s head whipped around to stare at Sylvanas, eyes wide. Sylvanas did her utmost to remain relaxed – how was this possible? How could she know? Sanguinar suddenly seemed far more dangerous. 

“I doubt it,” Jaina said, her disciplined tone raised in a slight, calculated surprise. “My contact has been light and relatively neutral, getting a feel for negotiating.” She sighed; Sylvanas attempted the physical movements. “I suppose it’s worth looking into. She does seem to respond harshly to provocation, and us moving on Ar’gorok would certainly get us fighting again.”

“You believe this to have been orchestrated?” Valeera asked, eyes narrowed in thought.

“It’s quite likely,” Jaina replied. “Large parts of the Horde and Alliance are itching to fight. If my communication with Sylvanas is known to you, then maybe more know and want to sabotage it. I’m still in the process of rooting out agents of both the Ashvanes and the Naga. I’ll be the first paranoid soul to suspect interference.”

Valeera nodded, then looked apologetically between Anduin and Sylvanas. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to start that discussion more constructively. I’ll let you know what I find.”

As the elven woman walked out, Anduin clasped Sylvanas’ hands between his own. 

“Is this true?” he asked, equally aghast and hopeful. “You and Sylvanas are communicating?”

“It is,” Jaina said. “My hope is to build our cooperation against Azshara into an end to this war.”

“Praise the Light,” he whispered as he brought his forehead to their combined hands. “Illuminate our path; steer us clear of all obstacles. Grant this blessing to end the suffering of your peoples.”

“I’ll let you know if we can agree on anything meaningful,” Jaina promised. “I imagine that my attempt at this won’t be a popular thing.”

“I don’t care.” Anduin shook his head violently. “Any chance to end the pointless fighting. To end the deaths… anything at all. So much needs to be worked out, but this war will clearly not do it.” He looked up toward the ceiling, thinking. “The dwarves and gnomes will be easy enough to win over. They’re the least affected by all this. My people are … exhausted. There will be some backlash, but I believe that the relief of seeing the armies return home will placate the people. The rest…”

“One step at a time,” Jaina urged. “Let me work at this and see if I can get somewhere. Then we’ll figure out how to sell the idea to the others.”

“Alright, Auntie.” Anduin gave Sylvanas’ hands one last squeeze, then stood. “Well, I suppose that the medal ceremonies are cancelled. We’ll likely need to redeploy everyone in attendance – _that_ will go over well.” He sighed and gave her hand a small tug. “Shall we find some lunch, Aunt Jaina? I think we can at least solve hunger.”

“Lead the way,” Jaina said with a laugh. Together, they made their way from the office toward the kitchens.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Matriarch, the Alliance marches for us!”

Liadrin tore from her map room, strapping her sword on as she went. “Defensive positions! Get me confirmed positions from ranger squad leaders! Send word to Orgrimmar and recall as many hunters and champions to Ar’gorok as possible! Someone get me a farsight view!”

Ar’gorok was a painfully orcish outpost, all rough stone and jagged lines. What it lacked in design, however, it made up for in defensive might. A small garrison here could repel a force several times larger for weeks; perhaps months. As it was, she had at least three times the soldiers needed to dig in for a siege. Her zeppelin count was high enough to maintain their airspace as well as run for supplies to supplement what mages could not portal in. 

She ticked points off her mental checklist as she pulled her long, red hair into a rough bun flat enough to fit inside her helmet. If the war had resumed, then Ar’gorok stood ready. 

A mage appeared nearby, hastily weaving together a scrying spell. Liadrin watched the incoming force grimly, staring at Turalyon’s livid face. “Something is wrong,” she muttered. The look on the High Exarch’s face promised a painful retribution – a retribution she had yet to earn on this battlefield. They’d been at a standstill ever since the battle with Azshara.

By the light of the Sun, what had happened? 

“Rokhan!” she called, marching over to the tall troll. “I left you in charge of Ar’gorok earlier. Our orders were to stand down until the Warchief commanded otherwise – were there any operations that might have riled the Alliance to attack?”

“No,” he answered simply. “We been waitin’ like we be told to. Maybe dey got bored?”

“Unlikely.” She shook her head, turning to shout orders to her gathering lieutenants. “Send for the Warchief. We need to update her on this.”

“She won’t talk,” Rokhan said from behind her. “She be silent as de grave.”

“She will have to,” Liadrin growled, “or this war resumes.”

“De Loa be up to der tricks,” the troll warned. “Be careful, Lady.”

With a nod, Liadrin made for the front lines, taking only a mage and a handful of rangers. She needed speed, and she needed a group small enough that Turalyon might allow her to speak. She’d not report back to Sylvanas about the failed ceasefire without at least attempting to preserve it.

The husband of Alleria Windrunner was something of a mystery to her. She could imagine that her allegiance to the Horde coupled with her past use of a captured naaru to channel the Light would sour his view of her entirely. She could hope for a man of reason, but she feared the worst: That a thousand years of fighting demons across worlds had made him too hardened and jaded to reason with.

Indeed, he exuded that very aura as she approached, though he did honor her white flag and allowed her to draw near. 

“Where are my people?!” Turalyon roared. “We observed nearly three days of ceasefire, and now you steal in to take captives!”

“We’ve done no such thing!” Liadrin returned. “Why would I violate my orders in such a fashion?”

“Have you come only to lie to my face?! I have dead and missing soldiers! Multiple scouts followed your people as they fought their way free with their prisoners. Alleria speaks highly of you; I expected better than this.”

“That’s preposterous!” Liadrin dismissed. “My people are all accounted for! There was no attack!”

“All blood elves, every one! At least two were mages!”

“You are either mistaken, or _you_ are the liar!”

“Matriarch!” someone cried. She looked behind her to see a ranger riding hard. She glanced back to Turalyon who nodded curtly. She turned and waved the rider in.

The elf nearly toppled out of his saddle as his horde skidded to a halt. “Rokhan requires you back at Ar’gorok! He said it was of utmost importance! That you would want to see it!”

Liadrin glanced incredulously at the messenger, and then back at Turalyon. 

“Will you let me look into this?” she asked him. “I have no knowledge of any attack against you.”

“Be quick,” the paladin replied tersely. “I will give you two hours, no more.”

Liadrin nodded and signaled her mage; two hours would suffice, both to investigate and shore up any remaining details of defence.”

Stepping through the portal, Liadrin stalked over to the large troll. “What’s happened for you to call me back so quickly? I’m trying to stop a war!”

“You can’t,” Rokhan said, pointing a thumb behind him. Liadrin looked past and her heart plummeted – six Alliance soldiers stood, sat and lay beaten and injured. One of them, a Draenei priestess, had several deep wounds and part of her horn missing. Clearly, there _had_ been a fight.

“A small group o’ elves came in jus’ after you left. Dey said dey were attacked first. Dey lef’ ya a fancy lil’ report over there ‘fore dey left.”

Liadrin snatched the paper off the table, her long eyebrows angling deeper and deeper as she scowled. “So, the Alliance began this…” Resisting the urge to crumple the paper, she allowed the Light to trickle across her skin like the beloved rays of the Sun, returning her emotions to their center. 

“I have a little less than two hours, then I must confront Turalyon with this evidence. I strongly suspect that I will not be believed, and that the fighting will resume.”

The Darkspear tilted his tusked head at her, considering. “You place a lotta faith in dat ting,” he said, pointing at the report.

“You disagree?”

He shrugged. “De Loa be up to der tricks,” he repeated. “Ain’t nuttin’ normal ‘bout dis.”

Liadrin exhaled, then squared her shoulders. “I have to go to Orgrimmar. I have a small window of opportunity, and I want the Warchief’s input. Ensure Ar’gorok is ready to push back the coming attack.”

Rokhan opened his mouth, then closed it, nodded. “Good luck,” he said at length, and stalked off.

“Good luck, indeed,” she muttered. Turning to leave, she left instructions to question the Draenei while she was away. With luck, she’d have answers from two sources before her time was up.

\---== {(0)} ==---

“I can barely get a word in edgewise with her,” Anduin gossiped as they ate. “It’s all revenge, revenge, revenge. Genn’s not helping any, either; though I suppose he’s a little more aware of our strained resources.”

Hearing the boy gripe about Tyrande tickled Sylvanas’ fancy even more than the rather well-made duck roast she’d already half-devoured. After three days of sea food, this was a small piece of heaven. 

Even better was that Vereesa had shown up. The cancelled medal ceremonies resulted in her finding them in the castle and joining them for lunch; her sister’s presence offered Sylvanas a level of comfort and security beyond Jaina’s illusions and Anduin’s hypothetical goodwill. 

“I’m pretty sure there’s a cultural component there,” Jaina commented between Sylvanas’ bites of scrumptious food. “I don’t know a lot about Elune, but I definitely know that the Night Elves are organized somewhat militaristically – all elves are, in fact.”

“But she’s got to understand my limits, Auntie! She’s lived for ages! She’s led her people the entire time! Surely, my concerns must be transparent to her.”

“I’d love to agree – and Tyrande is actually quite competent.”

“Mm-hmm,” Vereesa agreed. “This is one of those lost-in-translation things, I think. Tyrande lost a lot of advisors, didn’t she?”

“I would imagine,” Anduin said, confused. “I’m not understanding something here.”

“Elves are…” Jaina trailed off, and Sylvanas adopted a thinking posture. “Elves – perhaps all long-lived races – are… they don’t mature the same as humans and other short-lived races. Not that they don’t; the best way to explain it is that they hyper-specialize. Maybe it’s less a cultural thing and more the inherent patience and long-term view that comes with such a long lifespan. Our short lives tend to add a sense of urgency to our actions, which prompt us to generalize and attempt more things ourselves rather than waste time deferring to a specialist…”

Jaina paused as Anduin, frowned, trying to follow along.

“Okay, let me give you an example: When I was an apprentice in Dalaran, I noticed that elves were often the most outstanding masters of their chosen fields. As a little girl, I thought they were amazing. Only as I got older did I begin to realize that the 300-year-old instructor lecturing us on basic transmutation was only so masterful in transmutation itself – and not even the full spectrum of the field – only mammalian anatomical alteration.”

Anduin frowned. “So… shape-changing spells?” 

“More specifically, repairs to internal organs and small, specific adjustments to people’s appearances.” Jaina chuckled. “He was a beauty mage. His husband, another elven mage, was his practice subject, and by far the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

“But…” Vereesa prompted. 

“But his ability in other areas of magic was very average – just enough to get by. Outside of class, his demeanour was that of a teenaged human, maybe early 20’s at best.

“Now, that’s just one, but I could say the same for dozens. Even Kael’thas when I knew him, and he was on the Council. Vereesa,” Sylvanas turned to let Jaina address her sister, “is an especially egregious example of an immature elf.”

“Hey!” Vereesa reached around Anduin to smack her shoulder, as Anduin laughed.

“The point I’m making is that being so much older than us doesn’t really make elves better; what it does is allow them to become excellent at their chosen occupation. This flows over into their governance and military, as well.”

“Mm.” Vereesa nodded. “Really, that’s us in a nutshell. It comes naturally from our lifestyle. We choose vocations young, focus on it and rely on others who specialize in other areas. All together, everything works well.”

Jaina nodded. “That means a lot of teamwork. And that means that elves follow orders zealously. Even if they disagree, they’ll save it for a private moment. When given instructions, they just go to it.”

Anduin’s brow remained furrowed. “I’m still missing something. So, elves are… submissive?”

Jaina and Vereesa laughed; Sylvanas had to stop herself from joining in.

“Submissive isn’t the right word,” Jaina assured him. “I can assure you that an aroused elf is anything but _submissive_.”

Anduin coughed as his face reddened severely; he busied himself with his water for a moment. Oddly, Vereesa looked away from Sylvanas for a moment, her cheeks pink. Now that was an interesting reaction…

“The word you’re looking for,” Jaina continued, “is _subordinate._ Elves take orders without question. That attitude makes for highly efficient teamwork and made their military something amazing.

“The Night Elves are no different in this matter. Tyrande seems wise and worldly, but that’s because it’s her _job_. Being a leader requires at least some basic knowledge over broad areas. But I can assure you that unlike you or I, who have broad political and economic education with maybe a handful of people advising us, she has dozens specialized in different areas, informing her of things you’ve been trained to oversee yourself. The well-put-together High Priestess you see at these meetings is just as much of an illusion as my little parade earlier. Now, a lot of those people are dead and she’s going to miss things, despite her best efforts.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with,” Anduin panned. “I can’t exactly argue her into a corner here.”

“You don’t have to,” Jaina replied, annoyed. “I haven’t waxed on about elves for nothing, Anduin. There are two points of use here.” Sylvanas tapped two fingers for emphasis and tried not to grin – she was getting far too much enjoyment acting out Jaina’s dialogue.

“First, despite their age, elves – and Draenei for that matter – aren’t any much wiser than you are. Take Tyrande down off that pedestal you’ve put her on. She’s a good woman, and a powerful priestess, but she’s no Velen.”

“ _No one_ is Velen,” Anduin agreed, nodding.

“Good. Secondly, elves respond very well to orders from a superior.”

Anduin frowned. “Which is fine in general, but—”

“Anduin Wynn,” Jaina scolded. “You are not a little princeling anymore, beseeching the High Priestess for her understanding and patience. You are _High King of the Alliance._ ” 

Anduin sat straighter in his seat at Jaina’s words. Even Vereesa righted herself, scooting slightly back from where she’d sat so casually close to Anduin.

“You need the Night Elves,” Jaina continued. “You need her druids in your farmlands to bolster your yields. You need her priestesses in your infirmaries tending to soldiers and rooting out disease amongst your civilians. You need her soldiers reinforcing your current deployments. These are not insignificant things, and all necessary for the Alliance to rally enough strength to take back Darnassus.”

Jaina nudged Sylvanas slightly, and she leaned forward to add emphasis. “These are not mere requests the High Priestess might deign to grant you. These are _commands_ that you issue and expect her to follow.”

“I…” Anduin’s demeanour faltered a moment. “Do you think she would actually agree to that?”

“She will,” Jaina assured. “She will because it gives her people – and Tyrande herself – something they’ve lacked since the world tree burned: Purpose. If you show her the steps you need her to take and show her that they lead to retaking her homeland, she will follow and gladly.”

“Thank you,” Anduin said, reaching out to take Sylvanas’ hand. “I’ll muster up my courage and deal with Tyrande later today. Maybe without Genn around, just so they can’t double-team me.”

“I’m happy to help,” Jaina said. Sylvanas squeezed his hand slightly. “I’ll whip Kul-Tiras into shape and soon our homes will look like real countries again.”

They said their goodbyes shortly after, and Sylvanas’ mind drifted towards their upcoming meeting in Orgrimmar. 

“Jaina…”

Sylvanas stopped at the threshold and looked back at Anduin wringing his hands, a troubled expression on his face.

“Do you think that same mindset explains some of Sylvanas’ behaviour? Her tactics…”

Sylvanas tensed up. Beside her, Vereesa’s ears shot straight up. What would Jaina say in reply? Would she hedge? Or would she speak her mind to Anduin – and to her?

“Yes,” Jaina answered, “Yes I do. Sylvanas was – _is_ , first and foremost, the Ranger-General of Quel’Thalas. Whoever officially holds that title now, if anyone, that is who Sylvanas is. She trained for untold years to be the leader of arguably the most efficient military in the world and expects soldiers who follow orders without question. 

“That’s absolutely some of her trouble with the Horde. She got lucky in that the Forsaken seem keen enough to follow her commands and her elven tactics and strategies work well. But the Horde, by and large, will balk at orders that compromise honor or that require substantial risk; exactly the kinds of orders that elves would take in a heartbeat. It must frustrate her greatly.”

Sylvanas blinked, then thanked the Sun for Jaina’s illusions. Jaina’s words were … a simplification, to be sure, but…

“Jaina,” Vereesa warned. “Don’t tell me that any other elf would have ordered a world tree burned. Just don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaina shook her head, “but I disagree. Look at Kael’thas.”

“He was deranged at the end,” Vereesa countered. “A monster and a traitor.”

“A zealot.” Jaina shook her head. “He was a zealot and went so far to save his people that he broke – and Kil’jaeden took advantage.”

“He—!”

“He was my friend. Long before Arthas, before the fall of Silvermoon, before the loss of the Sunwell, and before the Horde, Kael’thas was my teacher and my friend.”

“A few years in Dalaran does not—!”

“And you think Sylvanas is the same?” Anduin asked, speaking over an aggravated Vereesa. “You think her tactics are for her people?”

“Anduin…” Jaina paused, and Sylvanas took a moment to check that her posture reflected Jaina’s tone. “Some warlocks are far more versed in undead research than I am, but I know a bit, and ‘lingering trauma’ doesn’t do justice as a description. Sylvanas’ last battle ended in a suicide run against the Scourge – against Arthas himself. She died, likely already knowing that her defence had failed. She died violently and was immediately raised as a banshee. She died in vain.”

A strange silence rung in Sylvanas’ ears as Jaina spoke. A lingering itch crawled across her rib cage where Frostmourne had run her through. 

“She is most certainly a living, thinking being. She is very much aware. But I truly believe that in the back of the Warchief’s mind, she is still planning a desperate battle to save her home from an overwhelming assault. Any tactic is justified. Any sacrifice is worth making. Hers is that last, desperate hope that everything she can give might save just a few more.

“To her, the Horde is Silvermoon, and we are all Arthas.”

The goodbyes resumed, and Sylvanas walked mechanically from the room. Vereesa was silent beside her, which she appreciated. She needed a moment. Perhaps several.

What she’d expected… Perhaps the worst. Perhaps she’d expected Jaina to simply condemn her to her friends and then apologize in private. Part of her had hoped for a spirited defence, even though it might paint Jaina in a negative light. This … analysis. This was…

The guards greeted them as they exited the castle. Vereesa parted ways at the square, heading for the portal to Dalaran. Jaina conjured a portal to just outside Boralus – close enough that any onlookers would not doubt her destination, but far enough away that she could teleport again without being spotted by the city. Sylvanas hastily stepped through, catching her cloak as it picked up in the suddenly brisk breeze.

This was… acceptable.

She felt no great insight or revulsion. She felt no missing piece. She felt… content. Jaina had perhaps puzzled together some of her behaviour in words that might explain it to others, and she felt… pleased.

Jaina perhaps understood her pain. Likely due to her own experiences. Jaina did not blindly condemn her, as others might. 

As she, herself, might. 

Perhaps she’d found more than just a potential ally in this debacle. Perhaps she’d found a kindred spirit, the beginnings of a true friend.

With a pulse of Jaina’s magic, they vanished once again, appearing just outside the gates of Orgrimmar.

\---== {(0)} ==---

The Horde capital felt at once familiar and stifling as Jaina took in her surroundings. Sylvanas walked with confidence, now in familiar territory despite the unfamiliar body. Jaina kept them cloaked in invisibility as they made their way to a Dark Ranger dead-drop location just inside the city walls. All around her, enemies walked, carefree and safe.

She’d nearly destroyed this city. 

In her anger at losing Theramore, she had very nearly visited the same fate upon Orgrimmar. A significant part of her honestly, painfully wished she had. The Horde would have crumbled with the loss. The Alliance would have rejoiced. Her mother might have contacted her and reconciled sooner. The elves might have re-entered the Alliance out of necessity. 

And Sylvanas? She’d have likely been killed.

The world would have been better off.

But she would not have.

Killer that she was, Jaina felt little remorse for the deaths of soldiers. She felt more for the loss of civilians, though she refused to delude herself: She did not mourn the Horde’s dead. Until she killed at least as many as the people she lost in Theramore, she would never truly care if these people died.

The raging fires of her anger might have cooled, but the red-hot embers remained just under her skin. Her words to Go’el had been earnest, but here, in this place, she could see the truth. Perhaps it was her conversation with Anduin. Perhaps, in being forced to analyze Sylvanas’ trauma, she’d seen her own trauma reflected. 

Loss was ugly. Loss made people ugly. The struggle to swim up past the current of anger ate at her daily, even if it seemed muted these days. 

But she _was_ listening, now. To herself, to the Tides. Tempting as the anger was, the pitfalls of that path lay bare now for her to see. Strike out in anger and you heal nothing. You harm others, who may in turn harm you further. Extend a hand in charity, and you begin to walk the path away from anger. From the pitfalls that promise more harm. Even if that charity is rebuffed, the effect it has on you will last. 

Surrounded by these people, charity was a difficult mindset to maintain. But she tried: She took in the orc children, slightly thinner than she’d perhaps like to see children. She took in the Forsaken huddled around the gates, forlorn and lost. She saw a Tauren staring at the ground as though mourning its loss.

These people suffered, too. Every person in every nation suffered, and the time to point fingers had ended years ago. 

Peace was more important than justice. 

It was more important because there was _no_ justice. No country could provide restitution for the atrocities committed. Too many people were guilty. Too many were ugly.

She was ugly.

Sylvanas was ugly. 

A feeling of comfort settled in her, easing her away from her prior concerns. She and Sylvanas slotted well together. Enemies forced together by circumstance, they’d reached a shaky orbit – but from here Jaina could make out the calmer waters. There was promise here; something that could stop the cycle of anger, and then…

…Then Theramore could finally rest.

“Here it is,” Sylvanas said as she retrieved a small ward stone. “This controls access to my quarters in Grommash Hold. With this, you can take us there directly.”

“Perfect,” Jaina said as she began to weave the spell. Hold on to that and my staff, and let’s be off.”

The teleportation spun into being, blurring their surroundings until the world reformed into the inner chambers of the keep.   
In front of them, Nathanos stood immediately, sensing the intrusion. Jaina dispelled the invisibility, and the ranger walked over. 

“My Queen,” he said shakily, his Thalassian slightly slurred with emotion. “I am pleased to see you again.” 

“And I, you,” Sylvanas replied, her eyes glowing a bright red. “What news?”

“Your body is ready for you,” he began. Sylvanas immediately turned toward her room, but Nathanos moved to block. “There is a matter,” he said. “The leaders have dispersed, seeing to emergency troop preparations. Liadrin has returned from Ar’gorok. She is desperate to see you.”

Sylvanas paused, a scowl working across her features. “Very well. Jaina? Can you manage an illusion of me?”

“Can I see your form?” She asked, her voice turning Nathanos. With a nod, the ranger took them to the room. “That’s fine,” Jaina said once they were at the doorway. 

As she wove the illusion, she noticed Sylvanas had gone rigid. Perhaps being this close to her body again was somewhat jarring. To Jaina, the Warchief of the Horde lay asleep on her bed, resplendent in her skull-embossed armor. It exuded a restful peace she’d never imagined seeing on Sylvanas. Her skin was smooth and unblemished by combat – even her burnt-in tears. Perhaps those naturally returned over time…?

“There are some discrepancies,” Nathanos drew her attention as he inspected her work. “Can they be fixed?”

“Not without more time,” Jaina said. “How about…?” Shadowy energy similar in appearance to Sylvanas’ banshee form shrouded Sylvanas like an inky cloud, heavily obscuring her. “There. A ‘recovering’ Warchief. That excuse should cover your deeper voice, too.”

“Excellent,” Sylvanas said as she looked down at herself. Nathanos nodded and stepped towards the main hall. 

Jaina held herself at the entryway as Sylvanas stalked into the room. Lady Liadrin jumped to her feet, giving a tired salute as the Warchief moved to perch at the edge of her throne, red eyes gleaming through the darkness. Liadrin approached cautiously, keeping a healthy distance between herself and the shadowy trails emanating from the Warchief. 

“As you can see, I am not yet whole,” Sylvanas said. “I have some moments. What is it?”

“I will not keep you,” Liadrin said. “Turalyon has marched on Ar’gorok, claiming that a Sin’dorei raid killed several of his people and took some prisoner.”

“And is this true?”

Liadrin sighed, handing Sylvanas what looked like a report of sorts. “Six heavily injured Alliance soldiers were delivered by a scouting party; they claim the Alliance attacked them first. They left before I could question them directly.”

Sylvanas nodded. “Then we have the obvious action: Locate the scouts and learn the truth of the matter.”

“We have little time,” Liadrin replied, agitated. “Turalyon gave me two hours to resolve this – an hour of which is already gone.”

“Tell your mages to be thorough with their Farsight sweeps,” Sylvanas returned. 

Liadrin nodded, sighing. “What is your preferred outcome, Warchief?”

Sylvanas shrugged. “There has been an incident. We will discover the truth. The so-called High Exarch has seen fit to threaten violence; perhaps justified, perhaps not. If the war begins again, it will be by his own actions.”

“The Alliance will not care for such trivialities.”

“I will inform Lady Proudmoore. The Lord Admiral will lobby on our behalf.”

Liadrin balked, her ears pinning back in shock. “You have – you have contacted her?”

“Indeed.” Sylvanas nodded gravely. “She has convinced me of the possibility of an eventual end to hostilities. There is groundwork to lay, naturally. If these talks are derailed prematurely, I will not have it be the Horde’s doing.”

“I understand,” Liadrin said, standing straighter. “I will not fail you on this. I will locate the scouts and learn the truth; failing that, I will present my evidence to Turalyon and allow him to choose.”

“Good,” Sylvanas stood, walking back toward Jaina. “Tell no one of Lady Proudmoore for the time being. I will make that announcement when the time arrives. Send word of resolution or requests for reinforcements to Nathanos as appropriate.” Liadrin saluted once more and left the hall as Sylvanas closed the door.

“That was a boon,” she said as Jaina dispelled the illusion. “She will pass word of my condition and reassure others.”

“What do you make of the ambush?” Jaina asked. 

“We’re likely fucked,” Sylvanas said simply. “Whatever goodwill we scrounged defeating Azshara will vanish with new deaths, and at least one warfront will open. With luck, we will both be in position from tonight to perhaps limit the battles to one front, and work from there.”

“Agreed.” Jaina steeled herself, ready mentally to reclaim her body. “Are you ready?”

“Sun’s light, yes,” Sylvanas said fervently. “I appreciate your hospitality, but it’s time.”

“Well, let’s get to it.”

Sylvanas walked back to her room, Nathanos following. In another room, Jaina caught sight of a Val’kyr woman sitting – likely the one responsible for the restoration.

Jaina drew loops of magic around her spirit’s bindings, ready to pull them apart. Sylvanas took several deep breaths, then exhaled as she expanded outwards, flowing slowly from Jaina’s form even as Jaina allowed herself to unfold. 

Her skin buzzed, feeling almost alien to her after so long away. Her physical senses felt fuzzy; it became a struggle to disengage from her constant farsight spell and regain use of her eyes. Everything began to spin for a moment, and she felt someone – Nathanos, likely – steady her as she fought to remain standing. 

“Dammit! JAINA!”

Only then did she begin to make out the growing whispers and distorted shadows. 

_Did you think yourself safe from us_ the voices mocked. _We have been waiting. You are shackled to life no longer. You are_ ours.

Sylvanas’ spirit form struggled valiantly against the growing shadowy tendrils emerging form nearly everywhere. On the bed, her body snapped its eyes open – eyes that glowed with a light eerily similar to Alleria’s. 

“Even your own body is a tool to use against you,” it said. “Your time on this plane is over.”

“Begone!” shouted the Val’kyr as she raced into the room, her Erdrich powers flaring. Blast after blast of dark energies slammed against the tendrils, knocking them away from the Warchief. 

Desperate to salvage the situation, Jaina began to scribe a rune of power into the floor. She needed more than she had, especially in her current state. 

“Do something!” Nathanos urged. “Save her!”

“I’m trying,” she ground out as the rune snapped into place. The leylines deep within the ground hemorrhaged power upwards, flooding her with excess mana. As her aura grew visible, Jaina focused on a simple wide-angled transmutation, pouring power into it as she released the spell. 

Screams echoed maddeningly around her as the tendrils of shadow exploded into water, drenching everything in the room and pooling an inch deep on the floor. 

Sylvanas’ body lurched, violently coughing up foam and brine as its legs failed it.

“Sylvanas!” she cried. “Come back to me!”

“No!” Sylvanas screamed, heading for her body. “I’m this close—!”

But her body began to stir. The banshee abruptly reversed direction, flying towards Jaina cursing all the way.

Again, Jaina conjured her spirit bond. Again, she pulled into herself, giving Sylvanas the room she needed to possess her. Again, she brought forth her farsight spell only to see her self as her eyes fluttered open with an angry, despairing crimson glow.

Sylvanas’ body slumped back to the floor, suddenly lifeless. The whispers ceased. Sylvanas stood stock still, staring at her body as Nathanos gently returned it to the soaked bed. 

“I will fetch cleaning supplies,” he said, walking off.

“Sylvanas,” Jaina said. “I will need to make an appearance in Boralus soon…”

“We may go,” Sylvanas said, her voice clipped with frustration. “We will return to attempt this again as soon as possible.”

“Of course.”

“One moment, Lady.” The Val’kyr rushed out of the room. Perhaps a minute later, she returned with a rolled-up scroll. “This is for you.”

“Thank you,” Sylvanas said as she accepted the letter. “Jaina?”

“Of course.”

Her staff glowed momentarily, and a portal opened. Without another word, Sylvanas stepped through into Proudmoore Keep.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sylvanas lounged on Jaina’s bed, nursing cup of that damned tea. Sun’s searing rays, she felt like chugging the potion straight and sleeping for a week. She’d been so close…!

With a deep breath, she allowed her anger to abate somewhat. It was what it was; and the tea’s effects had finally begun to kick in.

Jaina sat across the room at her desk, plugging away at economic plans and trade proposals. A familiar feeling of security washed over her – these past days with Jaina had been acceptable – pleasant, even. One more night would certainly not be the end of her. Sylvanas picked up the scroll from the night table, rolling it open. Now was as good a time as any. As she scanned across the coded letter, what little comfort she had evaporated to nothing.

_  
My Dark Lady,_

_The nature of the attack against you has laid bare to me the weakness the void is exploiting. When Azshara injured you, she destroyed the binding magics that allowed your essence to animate your body. Since reclaiming and reanimating your body, your nature has grown beyond that of a banshee. Your body is intrinsic to the being you now are. Robbed of a body, you have no purchase on the lands of the living. My power is insufficient to restore this bond. You must personally do so from within your own body._

_Leaving your host is clearly not possible without inviting an attack. Thus, you must embed a part of yourself in a receptacle, similar to a Lich. It is my opinion that attempting this with an external receptacle will simply invite further attacks._

_To succeed at this, the receptacle must be your current host._

_I apologize for the unpleasantness this will cause._

_With Devotion,_

_Brynja  
_

Sylvanas allowed the scroll to roll closed; it promptly tumbled off the side of the bed, smacking lightly against the floor. 

Her restoration would come only with the sacrifice of her newfound ally. To heal herself, she would have to harm Jaina.

“Shit.” She muttered quietly. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Are you alright?” Jaina asked, looking back from her work.

I must hurt you. I must rip part of my soul off and leave it with you. I will damage you, or I will die. You saved me and now I must hurt you. You can help me. You’re a mage and perhaps you can find something better. Maybe I don’t have to destroy every single fucking thing I touch. Maybe I won’t have to throw your mercy back in your face. Maybe. But I will. My lot in life is to suffer endlessly for my failure. I will fail you. You will hate me. You will take up the war again. You will kill my people. Because you saved me. And I will hurt you. 

You will hate me.

“Sylvanas?”

“It’s nothing.” Sylvanas turned and pressed herself against the pillow. “I’m just tired.”

Jaina hummed and returned to her work. 

Sylvanas stared out the window at the ocean and thought of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The first true test. Is success worth the price paid?


	8. Divided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. Chapter. Took. FOREVER.
> 
> Between a lack of free time and needing it to be as solid as possible... well. It's here.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Unlimited gratitude to JE_Talveran for helping me through this.
> 
> Notes on some details at the end, for spoiler-ish reasons.

“I understand, Count Ridgewell,” Anduin said, working to keep his voice patient and calm with the older man. “You must understand that supplies are simply not available. In the coming weeks, I expect new shipments from Ironforge and Kul-Tiras—”

“‘Weeks’ is a long stretch, your Majesty,” the man interrupted. “There’s barely enough food to keep the people fed! There’s such a lack of metal – even _tin_ , for Light’s sake! – that shops are closing! I need to be able to reassure my workers with something better than ‘weeks!’ Please, your Majesty!”

“Remington,” Anduin sighed, fighting to keep his hands clasped. “If I had—”

Anduin left off as the pounding of armored footsteps grew louder and louder. Royal Guardsmen and courtiers alike scrambled aside as High Exarch Turalyon strode towards him, his face a rictus of anger. He came to an abrupt halt at the steps to the throne, bobbing his head in a hasty bow. 

Count Ridgewell hastily retreated from the paladin’s side, and Anduin waved Turalyon forward. 

“I take it the news is dire?” Anduin asked as Turalyon handed him a crumpled paper – some report of sorts, by the layout. 

“The Horde have responded by showing me _that_ ,” spat the High Exarch. “They have prisoners, too. They blame my own people for the assault _they_ staged practically outside Stromgarde!”

Anduin squinted at the writing; clearly Thalassian, which he knew barely any of; he’d have to let Valeera or Jaina look at it. Truthfully, its contents mattered very little.

Turalyon stood before him, waiting for his approval to renew the campaign to secure the Arathi Highlands. Behind him, Count Ridgewell and the other nobles whispered amongst themselves, their stares a mix of desperation, eagerness and utter contempt.

His muttered prayer to the Light yielded only Turalyon’s continued stare and the court’s continued muttering.

Damn the man for bringing this to him in public. Damn him to the abyss.

What else could he do, but agree? His hold on Stormwind was far from secure. The resources he might bring to bear against the corrupt and ambitious within his court – intelligence networks, increased patrols, gold, goods and services, business ventures, entertainment – all drained into the bottomless maw of this Light-forsaken war. In perhaps the most ironic twist, the ongoing war curbed the nobles’ ambitions better than he possibly could – after all, they’d sunk most of _their_ resources into the war, too.

Funny.

Just yesterday Jaina had restored his faith in eventual peace. Now his guts churned as he mentally prepared and adjusted his response for what he hoped was best effect.

“We must, in turn, demand the extradition of those responsible to face our courts, as well as the return of our people. Unless both demands are met, we must resume hostilities.”

Turalyon nodded, content. “Yes, my Liege.”

“High Exarch,” Anduin said as Turalyon turned to leave. “If it comes to battle, make it quick and clean; ensure the Horde understands that they cannot remain camped upon our borders. We must break the stalemate.”

“It will be done, my liege.” Turalyon bowed formally and strode from the hall.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Valeera quietly exited the throne room, unnoticed by all except, perhaps, her fellow Uncrowned. As hastily as the High Exarch left to make war, she would leave to find allies. If Ar’gorok would fall, she would ensure that all escaped its destruction – including those Draenei prisoners.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Two shadows scuttled across the docks of Freeport, their movements hidden amidst the creaking of ships and the rolling waves.

“We’re late!” hissed the first, heavy bags lolling to and fro on his shoulders. “What if they’ve gone?”

“They haven’t,” the second answered. “Look!”

Slowly, they approached a one-sail fishing boat. It seems completely inconspicuous bobbing near the pier. As they approached…

“Wait. Where’s—”

They peered over the edge, both hearts dropping at the motionless body before them.

The first jerked upright before toppling forward. Behind him loomed a living shadow with bright blue eyes.

The second took off like a shot – but then the shadow was in front of him. Desperately, he slashed out with his knife. 

Strong, slender arms grabbed him by the wrist and elbow. They twisted; helpless against the pain, he followed the motion, coming to an abrupt halt as his nose splattered against a ship’s hull. 

He felt his arm slip free and spun to stab.

He felt the blow across his face and moved to cover – but his arms would not obey. His knife – did he still have it? As he tried desperately to power through the confusion and encroaching darkness, he saw the ground tilt impossibly toward him, moving closer and closer…

\---== {(0)} ==---

Alleria nodded in satisfaction at the unconscious men and mentally stepped away from the void. Like a petulant child, the darkness groaned and protested, but slowly receded from her flesh and armor.

She shook herself, only partly to restore regular feeling to her limbs. Nine seconds. It took nine seconds to banish her void form now. Just last month, she’d managed it in eight. She was slipping.

_You mistake the growth of your power for weakness. You will surpass all in power and in hunger._

Shaking the whispers from her mind, she moved toward the bags the men had carried. She suspected their contents, and proof took but a moment to produce.

Deftly untying the knot of one sack, she reached in and pulled out a healthy handful of gold – bright, unblemished coin, likely minted and deposited immediately into the national bank.

With a gesture, two other ren’dorei approached. One from the fishing boat, and another from farther up the pier. 

“Each of you grab a bag,” she instructed. “We need to inform the Lord Admiral as quickly as possible.”

“This seems to have gone on for awhile,” one commented as he hefted a sack over his shoulder. 

“Agreed.” Alleria sighed, then summoned a portal through the void. “Come; let us be the bearers of dire news.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

“Thank you for this,” Jaina said as Sylvanas accepted the satchel of books. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

The man – a stocky Dark Iron warlock – snorted as he waved her off. “S’nothin,’” he mumbled, his hand pawing through his thick beard reflexively. “Ye saved m’life when th’demons had us pinned. Most of m’jaw n’ teeth, too. S’least I’cn do to help.”

“I will,” Jaina promised. “Tremendously.”

“Good.” The man turned to leave but stilled. He peered back at her, eyes the color of molten metal. “Lady…” he hesitated, pulling harder at his beard. “I know ye don’ get on much with my kinda magic…”

“I value your service as a Champion of the Alliance,” Jaina asserted, Sylvanas adjusting her posture to one of authority. “I have no qualms about your loyalty, or your worth.”

“‘Kay.” The warlock cleared his throat, then turned to face her fully. “If y’need people… m’not ‘fraid of work… know ya got some mines th’need open again…”

The shock of surprise stole Jaina’s words. “Are you asking… to move here?”

“Uh… ya.” He looked down a moment, then met her gaze again. “If it’s alright wit’ya.”

“Certainly. Would you give me a day or two? Then we can discuss the details; I’m sure I can arrange something suited to your status.”

Again, he waved her off. “Ya don’t need—”

“—Yes,” she insisted. “Yes, I do.”

“Well… ‘Kay, then. Thanks, Lady.”

As the dwarf lumbered out of the office, Jaina immediately conjured her illusory form and grabbed for the books. “Alright… time for a crash course in necromancy, the fel arts, and shadow magics. Everything I ever vowed to not touch… such fun!”

She waited… and she waited… 

But the expected jibe did not come.

Looking behind her, Jaina saw that Sylvanas still sat listlessly at her desk, a pen in hand as she contemplated an unfolded letter – likely the one the Val’kyr had given her.

Jaina turned back to her book, levitating the heavy cover open and flipping past the introduction. Sylvanas’ mood would improve once they isolated whatever drew the void to her and countered it. Then, they would succeed. 

Then, they could work for peace. 

All that it required was to dabble in the forbidden arts… perhaps actually jump in and splash around a bit. After all, what could possibly go wrong…?

Taking a mental breath – nowhere near as reassuring as the real thing – Jaina found a section on souls and began—

Knocking twice, Alleria let herself into the room. “Jaina, if you’ve a moment, we have a problem.”

“Oh?” Jaina set the book aside. “What kind of—”

“Jaina?” Her mother called from down the hall. “Jaina, are you free? Lucille Waycrest is here, wondering if she might speak to you.”

“Of course, Mother,” Jaina called back. “Just a moment!” 

Another figurative breath, and Jaina switched her mental focus. Apparently, her odd little vacation from civic duties was fast ending, as well. 

Wonderful.

\---== {(0)} ==---

She waited in silence.

The letter, now translated and tucked away in one of Jaina’s convenient pouches, burned her like fire. 

Jaina, ever the optimist, had tested the void’s reaction to Sylvanas dozens of times since their return. Without fail, any time Sylvanas moved a smidge outside of Jaina’s body, the void promptly arrived, tendrils reaching hungrily for her. The void hadn’t taken Sylvanas, but it had surely snatched away Jaina’s optimism.

And now Jaina scoured the dwarf’s books as the hours ticked by. With every page, her happiness dimmed. Every time she switched books; her movements grew harsher. 

Angrier. 

If Sylvanas had learned one thing these past days, it was this: Jaina Proudmoore was smart. Whether it was the bookshelf lined with reports and studies that she herself had written, or their unfathomable trip to the Maelstrom to enchant equipment; even the battle with Azshara. The woman’s intelligence and ingenuity provided accurate analysis of problems and workable solutions.

So, she waited. 

Just a few pages more, she imagined; just a handful of cross checks to crush the last vestiges of hope and determination… then Jaina would realize; and Sylvanas’ reprieve would end. 

Ambush was her only option. Strike hard and fast; escape before the archmage could retaliate. Sylvanas recalled their last battle vividly, and how terrifically one-sided it had become once the surprise had worn off. No mere Farstrider could fight an archmage head-on and win; in her current state especially, Sylvanas stood absolutely no chance. 

Yet she could not bring herself to act. Barely could she even pool her energies to begin. This woman had done the unthinkable for her sake – invited Sylvanas in when she could easily have let her perish. Protected her. Comforted her. 

Now, the same wretched shred of self that prevented Sylvanas from murdering her sisters also protected Jaina, even as it doomed Sylvanas herself.

Ah, here it was. 

Jaina stilled as she scanned down the page. All movement ceased, her illusory form static and unmoving. Within her, Sylvanas felt tendrils of magic writhe and squirm out from a slowly growing pool of mana.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Jaina said, her mouth barely moving in time with her words. “Unanchored, you effectively belong in the Shadowlands. That’s why the void reaches so easily for you – it strikes from a realm that my magics can’t shield against.”

Sylvanas felt her throat tighten reflexively. Foolish body; she had no words to offer. Before her, her greatest fear manifested as Jaina turned slowly to look at her.

“The only way to circumvent this is some sort of fetter.” Jaina stood. “Something that would keep you bound to this plane long enough to re-establish your bond to your body. Something that disallowed the pull of the Shadowlands.”

Sylvanas stood shakily, unwilling to meet her fate sitting on the edge of a bed.

“But any part of you we separate to send to a fetter will fail. Our tests have proved that much.” Jaina stepped closer. “Any movement outside my body, no matter how small, summons the void. No form of phylactery will set itself fast enough to prevent the void from claiming that piece of you.” Sylvanas held her ground on shaky legs, willing herself still as the magic within her surged more powerfully. 

“The bond would have to be shielded as it forms, as you are right now,” Jaina continued. Faint wisps of mana wafted from Sylvanas, pooling around the mage’s image. “ _I_ would have to be the fetter, Sylvanas. _I_ would have to house a piece of your soul, with whatever damage that might do to me.”

Jaina stepped closer, now directly in front of her. “You’ve been different ever since Orgrimmar, Sylvanas. Detached. Quiet. Did you know about this?”

Sylvanas said nothing. With a shaking hand, she retrieved her letter from its pouch, holding it out. Jaina unrolled the page and flipped it to the translated side, her scowl deepening as she read. 

“Was this your plan, then?” Jaina asked, her magic rushing chaotically in all directions, flaring visibly around them now. “Am I suddenly no longer an ally, but a _sacrifice?_ ”

Sylvanas strained against her silence, grasped in vain for words that would not come. 

“Is this what I get for trying to save you? For housing you in my own damned body?!” A violent eruption of mana exploded forth, sending the covers from the bed. Behind them, Jaina’s neat desk skidded back a foot, the neat stacks of reports and letters now fluttering in the breeze like a frightened flock of birds.

Within her, the bonds on Jaina’s spirit began to break. Immediately, she felt an outward pressure and naked fear crackled along her spine.

“Why did you not show me this?” Jaina demanded, the edges of the paper charring in her hands as streams of raw mana arced through it. “We could have focused our research immediately! We could have spent today in Dalaran! In _Orgrimmar_ , even! Secured the help we needed! I have done everything I can to help you! Am I only worth this, now?! Must I give my own life to save yours?!”

“Jaina,” Sylvanas managed, struggling to control her legs and remain standing. Within her, the expulsive force doubled, then tripled as more and more of the binding magics shattered in the growing sea of mana. She strained with all her might to remain in place, but Jaina’s flesh grew harder and harder to grasp.

“Tell me!” Jaina shouted. “Tell me what I’m worth to you, Sylvanas Windrunner! Tell me what my efforts have earned me!”

“Jaina, please!” Sylvanas shouted as she slid slowly out of place. Darkness mingled with azure light she rose above Jaina’s skin. She cast her head around fearfully, barely able to control her body, half-removed as she was.

Immediately the whispers began. The shadows of the room moved unnaturally, stretching and lengthening toward her. 

And the arcane storm stilled. Sylvanas locked eyes with Jaina, red staring plaintively at blue.

“ _Fuck_.”

With that invocation, bonds reformed. Papers fell. The staff ceased to glow. Sylvanas sank back into Jaina’s body even as her knees hit the floor. 

Again, they stared at each other.

“I need to cool off,” Jaina said at length. “Stay here.” Then she was gone, her presence suddenly distant and muffled.

With trembling limbs, Sylvanas dragged herself onto the bed, sweat and tears mingling freely. 

She’d nearly died. She _would_ die, now, with her last bastion from the void turned against her. Jaina’s departure was not some calming walk – she would fetch help. Her sisters? Other mages? Priests? Would they trap her? Torture her for her actions?

No. She should leave. Do it now, while she could. Let go of her own volition. With her last shred of control, she could preserve her dignity and let go. 

Give herself to the void. To the end she knew awaited her. The end she’d fought so long and hard to avoid. 

Yes.

No.

Not yet. Not without Jaina present. Let her reassure the woman who’d done so much for her these last few days – the one she could not bring herself to kill. Let her witness it. Let Jaina see her sincerity; this final sacrifice to save Jaina further suffering on her behalf. 

Her breathing slowly calmed as she steeled her resolve. Slowly, she moved over to Jaina’s desk, searching out blank pages in the mess. As she sat and wrote, memories played out before her. Kael’thas. Lor’themar. Nathanos. Liadrin. Anduin. Arthas. Annhylde. Jaina. 

“An end,” she whispered in the silence. “Let there at last be an end.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

The creaking of shipboards echoed against the rhythm of gentle waves lapping against the hull. Jaina stood near the bow of the large silver-clad warship docked in the harbor – the very same ship she’d sailed out to the island. To fight Sylvanas and Azshara.

Everything was breaking. Alleria’s report confirmed her greatest fears about the state of her nation. Lucille’s clamouring for action weighed heavily on her. So many things to fix, so many projects to set in motion. Anduin was in dire need of aid she could not give. Turalyon fought forward in the Arathi Highlands, throwing the idea of peace into jeopardy. And the linchpin to that peace, her ties to Sylvanas…

What remained now?

Was she pinned by her own desires now? To achieve peace, did she have to play dice with her own life? More than she’d already done? The mere thought of weaving magics that affected her spirit directly was distressing and repulsive in equal measure. 

But if she did not, Sylvanas would die.

She _should_ die. So many problems could be solved by removing her. The Forsaken would fracture. A new Warchief would likely mean calmer waters. Tyrande would have her vengeance. She could leverage Sylvanas’ death into political favours she could call in to aid Kul-Tiras. They could prepare for any fallout from Azshara … and from Bolvar, Light forbid. 

The death of Sylvanas Windrunner would solve many problems and pave the way to solving others. 

“Child…” 

Jaina swivelled around, calming as she saw the old Tidesage from the island. The woman looked much the same – though calmer and cleaner. Her eyes glimmered with a color to match the water, a mote of gold within them reflecting the lighthouse on the hill.

“Are you well, sister?” Jaina asked, smiling. A thrill of joy blossomed within her to see the woman safe and sound; and perhaps a pang of regret that she hadn’t made her rounds to see all the survivors yet. 

“I endure,” she said simply. “I follow the Tides as they ebb and flow, and they’ve seen fit to carry me home.”

The woman came close and reached out to her, and Jaina stepped back. “I’m not actually present,” she said. “This is just an illusion. There isn’t much to it.”

“Nonsense,” the woman scoffed, reaching up and grasping Jaina’s hand. To Jaina’s surprise, the tight grip did not break through the illusion. “You are here, before me, details be damned.”

Jaina stood for several moments, silent. The woman simply looked up at her, a strong but patient look that reminded her instantly of sitting in Theramore with Aegwynn. There, the Guardian had taught her so very much, sometimes simply by sitting there, silent. 

The memory washed away as it began, emotions slowly rolling out as inevitably as they’d rolled in. Jaina turned her gaze back to the sea; it was easy to liken the deep waters to thought and emotion. She’d bothered her father about that idea once as a child. He’d simply laughed and tickled her for ‘every fathom of her deep thoughts.’

Kael’thas had loved her random ideas as well. Their great debates of portal theory were her most cherished memory of the elven prince. His ears would swivel forward, and his eyes would widen gleefully, giving him an adorable, childlike appearance. His joy and excitement at discovering something new had been heartwarming. 

Oh, how he’d wanted to court her; she’d just wanted to pull him into her lap, tall as he was, and read stories to him until he’d fallen asleep.

Oh, how she wished she could cry. Aegwynn. Father. Kael’thas. They deserved tears. More than tears.

And Sylvanas? Her anger roiled again beneath the waters of her mind. To think of her…

She felt the static shock as the woman squeezed her hand, deforming her image past its built-in constraints.

“How are you doing that?” Jaina asked as curiosity overrode her mood. “That shouldn’t be possible – you should pass right through.”

“Asking an old lady for her tricks, are you?” The woman looked up slyly at her. “I’m but a simple Sister, my Lady. Just came topside to see that you were well, seeing as you’re standing on my home woolgathering.”

“I haven’t even asked you your name yet,” Jaina laughed. “I’ve been terribly rude.”

“Pah,” she scoffed, waving her hands in a shooing motion. “I gave my name to the abyss decades ago. I live to serve on this ship until she and I meet our ends.”

“Oh! I hadn’t realized Tidesages still do that.”

“Most don’t,” she agreed. “Hold on to their land-lives a touch too tightly, I think. But most on the ships, I’d say. Most do.” The woman gave Jaina’s hand a slight shake. “I am the Sister of the Naughty Plank, Lord Admiral. Pleased to finally meet you.”

Jaina felt such surprise, she barely remembered to adjust her illusion to show it. “Naughty Plank? How is a warship named the _Naughty Plank?_ ”

The Sister erupted into a warm, cackling laughter. “Didn’t even bother to read the name last time, did you? Best to ask Captain Robards when next you see him! Or ask his crew what they did to earn it!” She sighed and bent down to give the deck board a pat. “Should remind him, too, that he’s due to change that name. Joke’s run its course.”

Expression fled her weathered face as her eyes once again reflected the fathoms. “I meant to thank you, Jaina Proudmoore,” she said. “When I saw you last, I was nearly overcome with fear.”

Jaina nodded. “You said to beware my anger. That it was ‘known.’”

“They know it,” the woman nodded sharply. “They wish it. They cherish it. Hands clenched in violence, rather than open and helping. Most of the time, they get it.” Again, she squeezed Jaina’s hand. “With you, they didn’t. You acted generously. You gave freely of yourself. You still do, now.”

“Should I be?” Jaina asked, suddenly angry again. Who was this woman? What did she know? 

_No._

No, she would not be baited. She was Lord Admiral, and an archmage besides. Whatever this woman knew was irrelevant at this exact moment; who she was, equally so. That was a matter for Alleria and her slowly growing cadre of spies. What mattered was waiting in Proudmoore Keep this very moment. Jaina drew herself up to loom over the woman.

“Sister, I tire of word games. I have loathed them ever since one sent me running from Lordaeron and the Scourge. If you wish to say something, speak plainly. Otherwise, leave me to make my decisions on my own.”

“Can you not feel it in the Tides?” The Sister replied. “Do you not feel the thrumming of hope, because of you? Back on the island? Here? In Stormwind? Even in the Horde itself? Have you not witnessed the benefits of your mercy? Can you tell me, Jaina Proudmoore, that you will abandon this work of yours? Will you again clench your hands tight and destroy?”

Jaina made to reply – and paused, the retort dying as she processed the question. 

Could she kill Sylvanas? Could she act now, while the Warchief was helpless as a baby? Throw away their newborn friendship? Face Alleria and Vereesa afterwards? 

The answer lay plainly for her to see, the tides of her emotions falling to low ebb.

No. No, she could not. 

Calmer, Jaina listened; and the Tides spoke; and the storm began to clear: Sylvanas did not cause this anger. 

Failure did.

She was angry because she wanted so badly to succeed. To win Sylvanas’ friendship and support – something that had begun to matter now. She wanted to end this war – and that mattered even more. 

The letter had been academic. Simple. Sylvanas could have simply assaulted her and left, assured that she’d be within her own body by the time Jaina could undo the damage. _If_ she could undo the damage.

She could have been ambushed and overwhelmed in Orgrimmar.

No. There was no sinister plot. There was only desperation. If there had been a sense of danger – if the Tides had whispered, if Sylvanas had seemed at all disingenuous or malicious – she’d have forced Sylvanas out and been done with it. Too much was now invested from both sides for this to be some elaborate scheme.

Jaina shook her head. “I cannot do it,” she whispered. “Tides help me, I cannot do it.”

“You are a good woman,” the Tidesage said, patting her hand again. “When you show care and mercy to the Tides, the Tides might not always respond in kind; such is life. But they _benefit_ , and their bounty grows ever larger because of your good custodianship. That promised bounty is what you reap – the knowledge that tomorrow’s haul is worth today’s toil. Ever has it been; ever shall it be.”

Then the woman let go of her, chuckling to herself. “Children never do take to that lesson, do they? Always focused on today. On _now_.”

“Thank you,” Jaina sighed, bowing slightly. “You’ve staved off a rash decision, I think. I need to approach this again – perhaps with better resources.”

“You can thank me by inviting me to dinner some night, Lord Admiral,” the Sister joked. “I don’t put much stock in possessions, but I do love a hearty meal!”

“I shall,” Jaina agreed. “Maybe I can use the promise of dessert to get you to tell me how you’re holding onto aether so easily.”

“You’ll need a touch more than a fancy cake for that!”

“Very well,” Jaina said, giving the now cackling woman a long, exaggerated eye roll. “Keep your secrets. Thank you nonetheless.”

“‘Tis a pleasure, Lord Admiral,” she said, still grinning even as she bowed.

Shaking her head, Jaina allowed herself to fade away, her thoughts moving to Sylvanas. Strange as this last week had been – not even a week, at that! – she felt a true kinship with the Warchief. Camaraderie trickled into their conversations now. They’d laughed and joked; they’d shared painful experiences. 

Their friendship, if she could call it that yet, was real. Sylvanas, like herself, had been dealt blow after blow. Unlike Jaina, however, Sylvanas had been left with no one to rely upon – no one she could trust to guard her back and offer her safety.

Jaina would change that. All she needed was to solve a pesky little magic problem – and she was very, very good at solving magic problems. 

Now… how to create a fetter for the soul-shard of a banshee and transfer it to a prepared receptacle, all while containing the entire process within the influence of her own spirt and preventing diffusion?

Her mind churned through math and known reaction formulae as she drifted back towards the keep.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sylvanas’ eyes snapped open as she felt Jaina approach. _It was time._ She rolled off the bed as the woman’s image formed, sparing a glance at her stack of written letters before facing Jaina directly.

“I’m sorry for taking so—”

“Let us end this.”

Jaina’s image halted momentarily as she processed the comment. Seizing the opening, Sylvanas forged ahead.

“I have imposed on your hospitality for too long, perhaps. I cannot fully express my gratitude for attempting to save my life. In the end, however, I can see that we will end in failure. Your reaction to what is required is entirely justified. I cannot and will not force you to damage yourself for my sake. So, I will leave.”

“Sylvanas, no…”

“I have written several letters,” she indicated Jaina’s desk. “They will alert key members of the Horde as to my decision and reasoning. There will likely be anger and retaliation from some, but just as many – perhaps more – actively wish my demise. Overall, this should ease you along the peace process.”

With a deep breath, she rolled her shoulders – the last time she imagined she ever would – and locked gazes with the now distressed mage. She was ready.

“Sylvanas, stop. You don’t need to do this.”

“I must; while I still have courage. I wish you only the best. Thank you… and goodbye.”

Now. Now was the time. Slowly, her terror leashed by an iron will, she began to shrug free of Jaina’s body. The instant she moved outside the skin the whispers echoed in the room. Soon…

“Sylvanas, wait! I will do this for you!”

Jaina’s voice echoed dimly across the growing rush of the void. Whatever Jaina said, she had to ignore it. She could feel the void as it crept closer, the shadowy tendrils impossibly cold as they grazed across her spirit. Fear set her heart racing, her breath coming in panicked gasps. Everything would end. All her dreams, pathetic as they were, now utterly gone. 

She would not falter – she was so very, very tired of everything. Let it all go. Release the senses of the body, and let—

The loud smack of rolled paper against her face startled her, and she collapsed back into Jaina’s body. Her hands shot up instinctively as she fell into a guarded stance. She shifted her hips, readying to strike—

Nothing. Only Jaina’s image stood before her, a scroll of paper in her hand. Around her, the void again retreated, faint wails of anger and whispered threats tickling the edges of her hearing. With a snarl, she snatched the offending page—

—and saw it was her letter. Confused and distraught, she scowled at Jaina. 

“Sylvanas,” Jaina said, flicking the letter with an illusory finger. “I. Will. Do. This. For. You.”

Sylvanas blinked. Then again. Jaina’s words swam through her mind haphazardly. They sounded simple enough, Jaina’s Thalassian was flawless. But they defied her ability to make sense of them. “What…?”

“I will do this.”

Sylvanas looked again at her letter. Brynja’s thick, coded text stood out unmistakably. She looked again at Jaina, who nodded at her even as she applied gentle pressure, sitting her back down on the bed.

“I don’t understand,” she managed. “I…”

“I will do this,” Jaina repeated, gathering Sylvanas’ hands lightly in her own. “You do not need to throw your life away. We will persevere.”

Her heart gave a heavy shudder as the weight of the words settled on her. Her eyes stung painfully. She swallowed against the swell of her throat as a large, fat tear rolled traitorously down her cheek. Her hands trembled – in relief, perhaps? Sun burn her to char, she was so _sick_ of crying! 

But beneath her roiling emotions, she felt her candle of hope ignite once more. 

“You would do this…?” She asked, her voice thick and raspy. “I don’t understand. I thought for certain…”

“I cannot stop now,” Jaina said, shaking her head. “I am far too invested in this to turn away.”

“Why?” Sylvanas pressed, desperate to make sense of this. Her elation grew brighter and brighter; perhaps if she simply shut her mouth for a moment, her muddled confusion would sort itself out. But years of trusting only herself would not be cast aside foolishly. “Why? What could you possibly gain by doing this? I knew the instant I read that letter that our cooperation would end in the worst possible—”

“Stop.”

“You know it to be true.”

Jaina arched an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Because I care,” she answered simply. “We can go around and around making justifications, Sylvanas. But at the core of it, honestly… I care. Enough that I’ll fight to the end to keep you alive. That I suspect you wouldn’t do the same…” Jaina shrugged. “I can live with that. Perhaps one day—”

The small, torn shred of her heart – the part she’d inexplicably, stubbornly saved for her sisters, for Nathanos, and now Jaina – stirred within her. 

“I will move a mountain for you,” Sylvanas declared, grasping Jaina’s shoulder firmly – and nearly toppling forward as she suddenly passed through the woman’s image.

“Not so hard,” Jaina laughed. “The spell can’t take much force. Give it a moment to reset itself.”

Sylvanas snorted and gave a small smile. “My grand promise has been interrupted. Nevertheless, it is true. I cannot – I…” Sylvanas swallowed against her emotions again, gathering her words. 

“…I want to live.”

Those words fell from her mouth with the weight of that promised mountain; and again the cursed tears came. “I was cut down in the prime of my life – forced to scrape and struggle along as this – this _creature_ – and I – I want…” she trailed off, unable to continue. Jaina sat down beside her on the bed, silent as Sylvanas gathered herself.

“What you have done for me, even before this, is beyond all expectation. I require no additional proof of your goodwill.”

Gently, she once again reached for Jaina’s shoulder. “I will prove to you my own goodwill.”

They remained like that for a moment, smiling at each other. Then:

“I’d still love to hear about what changed your mind so thoroughly, however.”

She’d barely finished speaking as Jaina’s laughter rang out, loud and genuine despite its spell-driven origin. 

“There she is!” Jaina sang, moving to gather the papers still strewn about the room. “I knew you wouldn’t be bogged down by happiness for long!”

“Well, naturally,” Sylvanas said haughtily as she wiped her face clean. “Us undying Ranger-Generals must constantly prepare for our last stand, and all.”

“Let’s just say I received some cryptic advice,” Jaina allowed. “The same person was present at our island battle. Her advice then led from us trying to kill each other to us battling together against Azshara. Today was another dose of the very same advice.”

“I need to thank this woman,” Sylvanas said, sighing as she rolled the last of her tension from her shoulders. Her hands still shook a touch – to think she had nearly surrendered to the void! Already, the idea seemed unfathomable. 

A warmth settled within Sylvanas as she relaxed back onto the bed. Jaina sat at her desk, drawing up plans at a feverish pace. She had expected the worst, and now…

With a deep sigh – natural breathing; she would miss this – she contemplated her reactions: Expecting the worst outcome always made the most sense in military action, and buffered against betrayals… Here, bright as the noon Sun, stood an example to the contrary: Clearly, had she approached Jaina immediately, they’d be a full day’s work closer to a solution. 

She would not have been abandoned. 

“You’re not thinking heavy thoughts, are you?” Jaina asked from across the room.

“No,” Sylvanas answered. “Just musing. Assuming the worst seems to be my greatest flaw.”

“And overwhelming rage is mine.”

“Ha! We seem to make a fitting pair,” Sylvanas laughed, lying back again.

Jaina watched her; and though Sylvanas knew the limitations of the illusion, she swore there was a newfound softness in Jaina’s gaze. 

“We do,” she agreed. “We really do.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

From aboard a zeppelin, Liadrin watched the Sun as it crested the horizon; peaceful in a way the ground beneath was not. Dawn’s first rays broke upon the roiling chaos of war.

Of course, she could not release her prisoners – not without some sort of trade. Of course, she could not surrender her people to the Alliance – even if said sin’dorei were likely imaginary, the mere rumour of such an order would cause the entire Horde to revolt. And so, Turalyon had promised war.

Now he delivered.

Fires consumed the forests around Ar’gorok. Artificial spires of earth and ice forced the flames aside as streams of soldiers, red and blue, charged through the divides to reinforce front lines. 

Behind Alliance lines, mages and shamans wove the elements into terrible attacks, battering against the mystic shields the Horde had erected over the town and its walls.

A dizzying flock of creatures and machines clashed overhead as riders and pilots took the war to the skies. Horde zeppelins peppered the alliance with cannon fire and explosives, only to be answered in kind by Alliance siege engines.

A siege in the making. A two-flank enemy assault that simply would not break.

She would change that.

“This is your stop!” the goblin pilot cried as he tilted his zeppelin into a steep dive. Immediately the onslaught from below savaged the ship’s hull.

“By the Light of the Sun!” Liadrin cried, “JUMP!”

As one, fourteen Blood Knights jumped with their Matriarch, breaking the air before them with the edges of their shields. As the zeppelin lifted shakily away from the Alliance bombardment, the elves plummeted towards the ground, all but invisible in the night sky. 

Beneath them, the Alliance front lines grew closer… and closer…

A sniper atop an ice pillar shouted in warning, swivelling his aim to Liadrin with deadly accuracy.

“NOW!”

The knights summoned shields of purest Light, enveloping them and turning away arrows and bullets. They struck the ground with meteoric force, scattering the Alliance soldiers and crushing those too slow to dodge. Safe in the Light of the Sun, the knights felt only the thrill of victory.

As their holy shields faded, they swung their physical shields about, locking them into formation. As one, they charged towards their confused enemies. Behind them, the reinvigorated Horde line surged forward, claiming ground. Horde spellcasters targeted the reinforcements, destroying pathways and sealing flanking routes. 

A grizzled dwarf sergeant shouted together a line of Alliance defenders to meet the knights, stopping their forward momentum. Immediately, the sin’dorei shifted to a new formation, one third falling back to a second line while Liadrin and the rest met the dwarves in combat. 

The dwarves were powerful and had numbers: Hammer and axe smashed into the first line; they tore shields from arms and shattered legs. 

Liadrin grunted as a sword punched through her breastplate, knocking jarringly off her ribs as it tore into her stomach and perhaps a lung. A familiar pain bloomed in her chest – and Sun’s Light be merciful, that this pain was _familiar!_

__Snarling, she twisted and brought her sword down upon her foe. The dwarf was skilled; indeed, in another place and time, she’d be hard pressed to survive against the difference in strength and mass; especially with the man’s weapon buried in her guts._ _

__Today, however, she held the Ashbringer. Dim and depleted though it was, the legendary blade still held incredible power. In her hands – the hands of a Light-wielder – it fell with impossible force, shearing through the surprised warrior’s shield and the arm behind it._ _

__Her second swipe took his head._ _

__Behind her, the second line wove the Light into healing spells: Bones set; wounds closed. Liadrin tore the sword from her side as the energies washed over her, the pain easing away just as darkness fled from the Sun._ _

__The dwarves had no such second line. A lone priest stood behind them, struggling to keep his remaining charges hale. One by one, the Blood Knights overpowered and dispatched their enemies until the dwarves broke and ran, the priest with them._ _

__Further and further they pressed, cleaving through Alliance soldiers and shrugging off injuries with the resiliency granted by the Sun’s Light._ _

__As suddenly as it had begun, it ended._ _

__The Alliance line was breached; Horde archers from the rear now peppered the Alliance spellcasters, halting their offensive and forcing them to shield and draw back. As they cleared the edge of the forest – and their remaining cover – the retreat became a rout._ _

__As orcs and trolls howled in victory, Liadrin motioned to her knights, who dispersed amongst the battle lines, reinforcing the few who still fought and tending to the wounded._ _

____

\---== {(0)} ==---

“This battle is lost,” Turalyon said as he watched the survivors streaming into camp. “Send word to the others: Retreat to the forests with all haste. No member of the Alliance should be near Ar’gorok.”

Several soldiers saluted and moved off. Captain Fareeya remained; the tall Draenei woman gazed at him expectantly, her golden eyes alight with anticipation.

“Captain Fareeya,” Turalyon turned. “Position the _Vindicaar_ for bombardment – exterior fortifications first, but plot strikes against all remaining buildings. Ar’gorok must fall.”

“At once, High Exarch,” she said, snapping off a salute, before stepping onto the platform of a beacon and transporting back to the orbiting cruiser.

Turalyon felt the familiar sting of regret and self-incrimination as he gazed down at his map and battle plans. He would try to rescue his soldiers – they deserved that much. But if he could not – if his remaining forces could not secure the town once the wall fell…

It wasn’t the first time he’d made such a decision. But Light above, he wished it to be the last.

\---== {(0)} ==---

The _Proudmoore_ floated out beyond the harbor of Freeport, dark and without crew like the ghost-ship it was.

Beneath deck, Jaina worked feverishly to prepare the room for the process to come, along with some basic contingencies. Sylvanas toyed with a very familiar set of twin swords she’d found aboard.

“I imagine I can have these back now?” Sylvanas joked. “Gallywix certainly charged enough for them…”

“You can have your hands back, too,” Jaina quipped as she wove her spellwork into the ritual circle.

“Mm. Slightly used rotten hands… I think I’ll just toss those overboard.”

Jaina snorted, nearly interrupting her spellweave. Shooing Sylvanas away, she resumed her work.

Officially, she would be meeting with Alliance sympathizers within the Horde – thus her location just outside the one quasi-sanctioned pirate port in Kul-Tiras. The presence of the Lord Admiral’s sometimes-flying flagship would deter interference but generate all the necessary gossip she needed.

The real reason for the meeting, to restore the Warchief to her body… Well. No one truly needed to know that little piece of information.

Alleria arrived first, appearing through the void as a living shadow, before slowly regaining her colour. Beside her, the shadow priestess Carissa Windwhisper dipped into a slight bow, her shadows somewhat more reluctant to part than Alleria’s.

“King Wrynn is aware of our coming ‘talks,’” the elder Windrunner confirmed. “He wishes us luck and success – especially given the return to hostilities in Arathi. Naturally, I believe that some other courtiers heard me as well.”

“Good,” Jaina said. “That should start mouths talking in all the right places. Carissa, I’m happy to see you again. How are you?”

“I am … well, my lady.” Jaina noted both Carissa’s hesitation and her rather haunted appearance. For perhaps the thousandth time, Jaina questioned her own sanity in meddling with shadow magics. This enormous risk—

No. She had to. Sylvanas needed this. 

Her alarm cantrip chimed, and Jaina opened a portal to Dalaran. A slightly pouty Vereesa walked through, making her way to the nearest table.

“You should have seen the look Khadgar gave me,” Vereesa said as she set the small box down. “I’d expect a visit from him in the coming days.”

“I can handle Khadgar,” Jaina said. “I’m well past the days of caring if we see eye-to-eye.”

“Please don’t injure him too greatly,” Alleria chuckled. “Turalyon and I are still owed drinks, and we intend to collect.”

The crackle of yet another portal opening announced the arrival of Nathanos and Brynja, cradling Sylvanas’ body between them. 

“We have arrived, My Queen,” Nathanos announced as they gently set the body down.

“Are you certain this will work?” Brynja asked immediately, narrowing her eyes and Jaina. “The guarantees provided by a living host cannot truly be replicated—”

“It will,” Jaina insisted. “The enemy here is the time it takes to set; we’re covering that.”

Vereesa pulled an elaborate amulet from the box – an empty, prepared phylactery; Brynja eyed it distastefully. “It will fail,” she insisted. “And quickly.”

“Not before Sylvanas settles and bonds with her own body again,” Jaina pressed. “That’s what matters here: Get the soul-shard into the phylactery, bind it, and then protect it until Sylvanas acclimates. Once Sylvanas is whole again, the fetter is redundant.”

Brynja’s scowl remained, but Sylvanas waved her off. “Enough,” the banshee commanded. “We are ‘meeting,’ and ‘meetings’ of this nature are generally _short_. We should proceed before Jaina is missed, so that she may put a positive spin on things.”

With murmured assent from everyone, they quickly assumed their positions around the main ritual circle, while Jaina and Sylvanas prepared themselves within. Vereesa placed the amulet on the pedestal before Jaina and stepped back; and Jaina began.

Slowly and carefully, Jaina worked her mana into the phylactery’s containment matrix. She coaxed it larger and larger until the spellwork dwarfed the amulet that housed it. Then she moved the matrix towards her, carefully monitoring for surges or unexpected power arcs as it met her spirit’s aura. It took her a moment to gather her will to bring the necromantic spell further in. 

Sylvanas grunted once as the spell made contact, but otherwise remained silent. She could sense the Warchief’s shadowy being gathering in density near her body’s stomach… and that wasn’t even remotely frightening.

No. Not at all. Truly.

Rechecking her own work, Jaina continued to guide the spell towards that growing pool of power.

“Impressive,” Brynja commented as she adjusted her monitoring spell. “There are only the expected interactions with the Dark Lady; all is well. Priestess?”

“The Lady Jaina is healthy,” Carissa said.

Alleria crossed her arms at the side of the room, worry etched on her face. Beside her, Nathanos busied himself with returning Sylvanas’ swords to their sheathes.

“Okay,” Jaina said once she centred the matrix. “Sylvanas, are you ready?”

“Yes,” Sylvanas replied. “Nathanos, bring my body into the circle. We must be fast, because the void _will_ react.”

“Yes, my Queen.” 

As Nathanos carried Sylvanas’ body closer, Jaina set up a temporary stasis pattern to maintain the spell. She’d need to reclaim her body in a timely fashion; she’d done it the last time…

“On three,” she said, steeling her nerves. “One… two… _three!_ ”

Sylvanas’ shadows roiled around her as sight and sound faded to black. Immediately, a cacophonous buzzing consumed her senses as now-foreign concepts challenged her concentration: Her limbs were paralyzed by the unfamiliar weight of gravity; her heart hammered in her ears; her first gasping breath startled her even as tiny motes of light broke through the veil of darkness. 

Someone – Carissa, it had to be – supported her from behind as she fought to regain control of herself, flexing her fingers and wriggling her toes. The thrum of her newly enchanted robe and staff echoed across her in a way she’d only guessed at. Inside her, she felt the matrix floating through her being… and within, a writhing, chaotic mass of darkness. 

Instantly she felt the shift as the soul shard turned its attention to her. In a swirl of desperation, the shard hammered against the edges of the matrix, sending jolts echoing throughout Jaina’s body.

Jaina hastily checked the matrix over as the assault continued – Tides, if it had broken… But no. It still held. Reminding herself to breathe, Jaina assumed control of the spell once again.

“The void comes!” Alleria warned. “Be ready!”

Carissa moved to stand with Alleria and Brynja as they prepared to fight back the shades. Sylvanas regarded her once before lowering herself completely into her body, which immediately began to twitch and writhe.

Suddenly, her eyes opened: A familiar fiery crimson, alight with power and triumph. Undead lips, restored to perfection, curled in a slight smile. 

_You will not escape again._

A shadowy tentacle lunged toward Sylvanas, who clumsily rolled away as Alleria cleaved it in two. From the corners of the room, more shapes emerged. Carissa called her own shadows into being, erecting barriers and launching pulsing bolts of darkness.

Brynja tore through the shades as they appeared, while Nathanos began to empty his quiver rhythmically into any enemy he could see. 

_You seek to fight that which is endless. We will have what is ours! The abomination will die! ALL OF YOU WILL DIE!_

Jaina carefully began to move the matrix back toward the amulet – and lurched as pain erupted in claw-like trails through her gut. The shard seemed frantic to remain with her, which terrified her far more than it intrigued her. 

Necromancy was a minefield. It scarred its practitioners, scared the people and had practically no use outside of warfare. Now here she was, guiding the equivalent of a caged saber cat through her being while it raked and bit her. What new scars would she carry from this?

“Come on,” she whispered to herself – or the shard, perhaps? “I’m trying to help you. Stop hurting me and _move_.”

“Hurry!” Sylvanas urged. Too uncoordinated for a bow, Sylvanas drew her Azerite blades and slashed at any of the tendrils that approached her. The shadows gave way before the strikes; around her, the others scored their individual victories. But slowly, the shadows grew both in size and ferocity, closing around them and hissing against Carissa’s shields. 

Jaina heaved with all her mental might, crying in pain as the soul shard resisted with surprising force.

“Don’t fight me!” she growled through clenched teeth. “I’m trying to save you, dammit. Why. Are. You. Fighting?”

“Jaina, it has to be soon!” Alleria shouted. “We can’t hold ground!”

With a final, pained shout, Jaina cast her caution aside and thrust forth with as much raw mana as she dared. This thing needed out _now._ The shard clutched as hard as it could – and then it was free, floating before her as shadowy tendrils reached hopelessly for her.

A terrible, mournful wail echoed through the air, and the soul shard went still.

Behind her, the others shouted, urging her on. But Jaina stood a moment, confused. What _was_ this reaction? Why would it fight so hard, only to give in? This didn’t make sense.

“Jaina,” she heard, half in her mind. She turned, catching Sylvanas’ gaze. For an instant, her gaze was sad and wistful. But desperation quickly dominated. “You have to finish this. Now.” 

Jaina turned to the shard. “I don’t understand you,” she said even as she lowered it towards the amulet. “I’m trying to keep you safe. Why are you fighting?”

The shard roiled against the matrix. Shuddering with effort, it forced a small tendril of itself back through the matrix, reaching out to her, struggling to barely touch her wrist.

A living shadow lunged towards her; startled, she resorted again to a transmutation defence, channeling down her staff into the circle around her. The creature collapsed as it crossed the threshold, melting to a puddle of dirty water.

And still, the tendril strained to stay in contact with her.

“Come on; I know I’m probably much nicer than the amulet. But then you can be with the … the rest of you. You can be as whole as possible. Don’t you want that?”

Again, it touched her wrist, curling slightly before it fell away.

“Staying with me is dangerous. The void wants you. This—”

Jaina fell silent as the shard redoubled its efforts. The matrix quivered as the shadows oozed forth, stretching the tiny limb until its tip rested on her shoulder. 

In the darkness, she swore she glimpsed Sylvanas’ face; her eyes a storm of emotions and longing. 

‘I will prove to you my goodwill.’

‘The guarantees provided by a living host cannot truly be replicated.’

‘The closest thing I have to a friend.’

‘It will fail.’

‘Because I care.’

Within her, the Tides calmed, a single indecipherable note within them. Behind her, the shouts and clamour reached fever pitch. In front of her, the soul shard curled obediently back into the matrix, its energy spent.

“Sylvanas,” she whispered. 

The shard moved and wriggled. Then it again went still.

“Jaina, you fucking wastrel of a mage!” Vereesa roared. “Hurry! The FUCK! _UP!!_ ”

A sudden urge to laugh overcame her, and Jaina nearly allowed it – but that would waste time. Time they did not have, and she lacked the energy to create. 

This would not do. This was no longer necromancy. This was not some mindless, formless energy with base instincts. 

This was _Sylvanas_. Every bit as much as the woman fighting shades behind her. And she was scared. And she cared for her.

Quickly, she pulled the matrix back toward herself, altering it to slot into her aura more securely. If she held this soul-shard within her, she’d have to change things. She’d spent enough time in a spirit cage – that was not the way to treat a friend, or their soul. No… she needed something more.

“I need you to help me,” she spoke as the soul shard began to twitch in anticipation. “What you did before hurt me. I need you to be gentle. Can you do that?”

The matrix vibrated for a moment; that, she supposed, was as good an answer as she would get. 

“Jaina, what are you doing?!”Sylvanas shouted from behind her – but Jaina was far too busy to answer.

Blindly, she sent a new stream of mana towards her circle, widening the transmutation to hopefully encompass her friends. Between that and Carissa’s shields, they should hold out. At the same time, she felt the shadows shift gleefully back and forth beneath her skin as the matrix phased through her being, growing to encompass her entirely.

“Carefully spread out,” she instructed. “I need you to be everywhere, even…” she swallowed as a frission of fear echoed down her spine. “Even my mind. Stretch out, Sylvanas.”

Icy knife-like trails burrowed through her bones and muscles, seeping into her organs with an unnatural chill that made her shiver uncontrollably. Her concentration nearly fled entirely as fingers of deathly cold reached up from her spine and pushed into her brain.

She could resist it. It would be easy to expel the spirit; she’d already done it after all. Force it back into the matrix, escape this uncertainty…

But she did not. 

Someone was here. In her mind, observing. Sylvanas – or at least a part of her. She could feel her intimately close – right behind her, and perhaps a touch to the left… The presence felt stiff and guarded.

She could relate. She was nervous, herself. So many things could go wrong.

But Sylvanas cared, the Tides seemed… content. And the shard itself – herself – seemed willing to cooperate – and indeed, she had been very gentle, considering the very concept of possession… that, more than anything, gave her faith that this truly was a part of Sylvanas’ very sentience, and made this process so very important.

Besides, she had upended her life before on the words of a stranger, and how fortunate she’d been to believe! Clearly it was time for a second leap of faith.

She felt the flow of the matrix as it warped and stretched, matching her own mana flow. Now, the two were separated only by frequency. Carefully, she reached within herself and took hold of the flow of her own soul, carefully drawing slender leads up through the matrix, trickling along the trails of shadow that Sylvanas had already carved.

The shadow within her jolted; was she frightened?

“Be calm,” Jaina soothed. “Nothing bad will happen. I will join my soul with you. It’s the only way to do this that – I … I don’t want to use cages. Not for you, and not for me. Just … hold onto me. To my soul. I need your help.”

Still there was tension, even as the shadows moved to press against her leads. 

“This is the last moment you’ll ever be alone,” Jaina whispered – perhaps as much to herself as Sylvanas’ shard. “If you pray to the Sun – to the Light, I’ll pray to the Tides. Instead of that amulet, you will be bound to me – to my soul. From this point, we will be one spirit – forever.”

After a moment, the tension eased as the shadows relaxed, sinking even deeper into her being. With a final check, Jaina severed the remaining connections of the containment matrix to the amulet, breaking it down into additional mana to fuel a new transmutation – a living bridge between life and death.

With a final act, she mentally took hold of each of her leads and the shadows behind them as the transmutation suffused her entire being. With a decisive exhale, she twisted, locking the strands together as the spell sunk into them like flux to hot steel, welding them together . A new soul forged of two parts. Something new. 

Something permanent.

Behind her, the now-familiar wails of the void echoed as the shadows retreated, their gateway though the Shadowlands now useless. 

Everyone shouted at her as she turned, but her eyes locked immediately on Sylvanas, who glanced between her and the now inert amulet on the table behind her. 

“You… kept it.” Sylvanas whispered, the words echoing in Jaina’s mind. 

Jaina opened her mouth to reply…

…and the pain struck.

White-hot shocks of agony lanced down her spine, driving her to her knees. Her thoughts blew apart. Her every intention focused upon pulling air into her struggling lungs as she sank to the damp floor, clutching her chest. 

Above her, Sylvanas hovered worriedly as her vision faded to a series of coloured streaks and grey nothingness.

\---== {(0)} ==---

Sylvanas stumbled through the portal to her quarters in Grommash Keep. Already, Nathanos blathered on about the battle in the Arathi Highlands, to which she paid only the barest attention. She left him mid-debriefing to stand in her room, eyeing herself in the mirror.

Jaina had kept her soul-shard. 

Jaina had _done_ something to it. To her. She could feel it even now … an odd sensation, always behind her no matter which way she turned.

Jaina had hurt herself in the process… and Sylvanas was at a loss as to how to feel. Grateful? Worried? Apprehensive? Angry? Happy? All the above…?

Already she felt her memories of a mortal body fading as the familiar sensations of her undead form returned. She had to force herself to breathe. To blink. Saliva would not flow. Her ears once again had proper muscles and a full range of motion she’d dearly missed these last days.

She needed to check on Jaina. Not now. But soon. She needed to know what had happened. She needed…

“Dark Lady.”

Nathanos’ voice had a wary tone to it, snapping her out of her thoughts. Stepping out of her room, Sylvanas stopped dead at the sight of four Val’kyr.

Val’kyr that had died.

Val’kyr that absolutely _should not be here._ Especially the one that stepped towards her now.

“Annhylde,” she whispered.

“I have returned,” the tall, winged woman said simply. “I am no longer required to take your place – you have seen to that now; and so, I have returned.”

“As have we,” one of the others – Agatha – confirmed. “We gave ourselves over to death for you as an ongoing sacrifice. That time is now over.” The other two, Daschla and Arthura, nodded in agreement.

“If you are returned…” Sylvanas whispered, her mind reeling with the implications … and the possibilities. “Can you recall your slain sisters, then? Kyra, Signe and Bodil from the island? Perhaps even Aradne? Or create more of you – the lesser ones? Are you numerous enough to do so?”

“We are,” Annhylde agreed. “Freed from the burden of supporting you on this plane, we may see to ourselves. Our pact still stands: Rather than be bound to the Lich King, we nine remain bound to you, whatever your form may be. We will raise our sisters and await your orders.”

She had Val’kyr again. She could make new ones. She could expand her Forsaken. Everything was completely and utterly different now.

“Excellent,” Sylvanas said as plans unfurled within her mind. “Simply excellent.”

\---== {(0)} ==---

She should be unconscious.

That was how the tales went, wasn’t it? Tremendous pain, grand, dramatic suffering, and then you faint dead away, only to awake in some dungeon, or – if lucky – a bed.

Clearly, Jaina did not merit such a thing.

Alleria and Vereesa carried her through Proudmoore Keep, no doubt sending her family into a panic. Carissa followed, summoning spell after spell as her shadows washed over Jaina to no great effect. Every bump and squirm brought waves of agony across her entire body. A separate, indescribable pain buzzed and tingled across every single tiny cell in her being. 

As they laid her onto her bed, she scraped together enough will to summon her ship home. It would float derelict in the harbour, but she trusted Tandred or Mishan to see it properly docked. 

With nothing else to do, she counted. 

She counted the beats of her heart as she held her fingers to her neck – but she needn’t have bothered, as her pulse matched the thrum of her pain. Thirty-two to a minute.

She counted the breaths she took in the same time. Four.

“Is, is it…?” she managed to ask.

“No,” Carissa breathed. “It isn’t recovering, my Lady. It’s gotten slower on the way.”

“Slower,” she mouthed.

Tides… what had she done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now... Perhaps, Jaina, this _wasn't_ the best time to follow your heart...?
> 
> Liadrin holds Ashbringer if you aren't a Paladin, and your artifact is just handed back to you de-powered... so that means that in this world, Liadrin still has Ashbringer, and I get to have fun with that. If you haven't noticed, I really enjoy exploiting and/or twisting lore for my own gain. ;)
> 
> Strangely, only 8 of the 9 Val'kyr bound to Sylvanas were officially named, and Sylvanas would certainly know her... So I picked a suitably Norse one (Bodil, "Battle will cure"). Perhaps in the future Blizzard will name her and my curiosity will be sated.


End file.
